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

Edited by Cornelia Niekus Moore This book was published by ANU Press between 1965–1991. This republication is part of the digitisation project being carried out by Scholarly Information Services/Library and ANU Press. This project aims to make past scholarly works published by The Australian National University available to a global audience under its open-access policy. Insulinde: Selected Translations from Dutch Writers of Three Centuries on the Indonesian Archipelago wv/!*>!v!vjMv!v!v!v!

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Australian National U nivesity Press Canberra 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 Contents

Introduction vii 1. Willem Ysbrandtszoon Bontekoe 1 Memorable Description of the East-Indian Voyage 1618-1625 4 2. Johan Splinter Stavorinus 18 Voyages to the East Indies 20 3. Multatuli (Eduard Douwes Dekker) 24 The Sermon of the Reverend Blatherer 28 The Story of Sai'jah and Adinda 35 4. Louis Marie Anne Couperus 55 The Hidden Force 57 5. Augusta De Wit 76 The Three Women in the Sacred Grove 78 6. Johan Fabricius 100 Java Ho! 102 7. Charles Edgar du Perron 112 The Land of Origin 114 8. Elisabeth (Beb) de Willigen-Vuyk 136 All Our Yesterdays 13 8 9. Herman J. Friedericy 144 The Heron Dance 146 Vi CONTENTS

10. Albert Alberts 150 The Chase 152 11. Maria Dermoüt-Ingerman 168 The Sirens 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 in­ sight 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, there­ fore, the Dutchman is the protagonist. The chronological arrangement shows the progression from an attitude of European superiority to an ap­ preciation of the foreign culture in spite of a growing awareness of polarization. But whatever the attitude toward the colony was, the colo­ nial 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, in­ formative works, letters, essays, etc. Even the novels and short stories set against an Indonesian background are either frankly autobiographical or thinly veiled romans ä clef describing situations which were in all likeli­ hood experienced by the authors themselves or their acquaintances dur­ ing their Indonesian years. This immediacy between impression and ex­ pression 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. Bon- tekoe 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 informa­ tion. 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 well- informed account and others like it were meant for the enlightened eigh­ teenth century reader. Stavorinus’s work was translated into French and English immediately after its Dutch publication. Multatuli’s Max Have- laar 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 chil­ dren to this day. Their continuing appeal in the Netherlands thirty years after Indone­ sian independence is one more factor which attests to the quality and timelessness of many of these works. Most of Couperus’s works have re­ cently been published again. The complete works of du Perron and Mul­ tatuli 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’ colo­ nial 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 be­ cause 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 in­ teractions between the different groups. These deserve a more subtle and lengthy treatment than is possible here. What is relevant for this in­ troduction is the participation of each group in the literary process. In this respect it is of importance that until the twentieth century most Dutch iiterary 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. Most­ ly 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 twen­ tieth 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 re­ turn 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 con­ tinuing attempt to explain the unexplainable, to familiarize the reader with the unfamiliar, and most of all, to describe phenomena, impres­ sions, opinions. The Dutch people understood or misunderstood, en­ joyed 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 slow­ ly developed a literary scene intended for the population who had mi­ grated to the new land and were familiar with the circumstances there. Crdve-Coeur’s Letters o f an American Farmer and Dickens’s satirical ac­ counts of his American travels belong to the few works intended for Eu­ ropean 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 writ­ ers, 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 perma­ nent home, and in this short time span their contributions were outstand­ ing. 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 circum­ stances related to Indonesian independence made it necessary for this group to declare allegiance to the Indonesians or to the Dutch, an impos­ sible 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 Alarcön and Garcilaso the Inca) or who felt themselves sufficiently different from the old world to INTRODUCTION xi 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 litera­ ture, 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 situa­ tion in other Asian colonies, with the possible exception of the Philip­ pines where the literary use of Spanish and English co-exists with the in­ creasingly 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. Judg­ ing 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 to 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 in­ terest. 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 dam­ aged 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 mer­ chant were bound to be at odds, and Bontekoe’s own narrative shows in­ cidences 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 mer­ chant 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 com­ peted for wares in foreign ports, but it also harmed the national aspira­ tions 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 suc­ ceeded 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.3 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 con­ tacted 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 de­ clined. 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. June 23, 1596, Cornelis de Houtman reached the port of Bantam with four Dutch ships. 2. 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). 3. 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. 4. 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. Incidental­ ly, De Nieu-Hoorn was the ship on which Coen made his first trip to the Indies in 1607. Memorable Description of the East-lndian 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 Keele- meyn, 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 im­ mediately 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 dous­ ing 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. “ Mate,” I said to him, “ we’d better throw the gun­ powder overboard.” He had trouble making up his mind. “ If 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 im­ agine 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. “ Men,” he told them, “ let’s wait until the captain comes, too.” 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 back!” 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 ap­ proaching 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. Go at once to the powder room and get the gunpowder over the side, so the fire doesn’t touch it off.” 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 bit­ ter 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 noth­ ing 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 Lord,” ’ I thought to myself, “ how this beautiful ship has perished like Sodom and Gomorrah.” Bontekoe is picked up by the men in the longboat. They spend the next twelve days on the open sea. 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 con­ solation 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 clear­ ing. 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. Joy­ fully, 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 parti­ cular devotion and had sung a psalm before and after each prayer, since some of the men had brought their psalmbooks along with them. I my­ self 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 try­ ing us beyond our capacity but guiding us thus far. For the crew had re­ solved 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 man­ aged 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 in­ habitants 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 ap­ peared 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 weap­ ons 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 fur­ ther 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 get­ ting 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 them­ selves. 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 stern. 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 trepida­ tion. 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 over­ night in order to catch the animal as it lay down and bring it back in the 12 WILLEM YSBRANDTSZOON BONTEKOE boat; and that I 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 ani­ mal. 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. “We don’t have to fear these people. We’ve men enough.” They none­ theless 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 men! ” 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 enor­ mous 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 pep­ pers, 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 fre­ quented 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 dis­ covered 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 fa­ therly 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, suf­ fer 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 clear­ ing. From my vantage point I observed two high, blue mountaintops. It immediately crossed my mind that I had heard Willem Cornelisz Schou- ten,4 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 mer­ chant 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 in­ asmuch 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 o f 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 misfor­ tunes, 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 Pie- terszoon 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 in­ troduced 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, there­ after 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 Dor­ drecht 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. 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. 2. Jan Pieterszoon Coen (1586-1629). See further note p. 3. 3. Meant here is arak, a palm wine. 4. 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. 5. 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. 6. 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 on­ ly 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 attri­ buted 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 didac­ tic 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 evalua­ tion 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. . . .’’ He suggests that women should get more of an educa­ tion 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 mak­ ing 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, accom­ panied 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 gather­ ings 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 house­ keeping or in the ways of society. Hence, even after many years of mar­ riage, 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 born 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 Chris­ tianity—or at least become nominal Christians. The children born of these women are easily recognizable, even in the third and fourth genera­ tions, 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 some­ times even younger. They seldom remain unmarried after that age, pro­ viding 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 direc­ tion. 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 mo­ ment they will have the poor creatures mercilessly whipped for a mere tri­ fle. 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 constant­ ly chewing their pinang or betel, to which all women of the Indies are ad­ dicted (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 intelli­ gence, 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, how­ ever, 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 col­ lapse 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 un­ married 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 Wed­ nesday, 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 ac­ quires 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 wrap­ ped around the body and fastened under the arms. Over this goes a cot­ ton 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 coun- cilmen, 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. ML) LTATU LI (EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER)

Introduction The end of the eighteenth century saw the Far East Indian Company dis­ solved (1799) and French hegemony established in the previously power­ ful Dutch Republic. When the Treaty of London restored the overseas territories to the Dutch, the Far East Indian Company was not reinstitu­ ted. 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 vir­ tues 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 revolu­ tion, this class molded its children in its own image. Its pedagogical in­ sight (or lack of it) has been immortalized by Multatuli’s literary crea­ tion, 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 slight­ ly 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 gov­ ernor general, Duymaer van Twist, whom Douwes Dekker knew person­ ally. 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 re­ gent 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 repri­ manded 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 exonera­ tion remained unsuccessful even after his arrival in Holland, he wrote Max Havelaar or the Coffee Auctions o f 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 nine­ teenth 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 cer­ tainly 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 Multa­ tuli—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 reper­ cussions, 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 qual­ ities. 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 oppres­ sion of the Javanese peasant, and several efforts were undertaken to declare his account exaggerated and untrue, to accuse him of lack of in­ sight. Others said that Douwes Dekker had not acted prudently. How­ ever, the exploitation of the Javanese peasant by the colonial government through its system of compulsory crops (kultuurstelsel) 2 and by the Java­ nese 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 genera­ tions 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 hos­ tile, immoral, incompetent superiors. Indeed Max Havelaar has rightly been called an “autohagiography.” Two hundred years lie between Bontekoe’s somewhat bemused ac­ count of the “ savages” and Multatuli’s outcry: “ The Javanese is op­ pressed, my dear reader.” Most striking in this book is the dual portrayal SERMON OF THE REVEREND BLATHERER 27 of the ignorant, bigoted Dutch burgher who enjoys his colonial prosperi­ ty 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 big­ ots 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 Saijah 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 jus­ tice 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 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 attain­ ing higher government posts. The regulation was withdrawn in 1876. 2. Introduced in 1830. 3. Both excerpts are taken from Multatuli, Max Havelaar or the Coffee A uctions of the Dutch Trading Company, trans. Roy Edwards (Leyden: Sijthoff; London: Heinemann; New York: House and Maxwell; 1969), pp. 136-143 and pp. 255- 279. 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 trou­ ble 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 absolute­ ly no excuse, and I maintain that the Government is guilty of unpardon­ able 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 any­ way—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 ma­ ture 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 Indepen­ dence, and he dropped the Aglaias.' That’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 up 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 pun­ ished; 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 em­ broidered 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. Do 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 Java­ nese, Malays, whatever else those people call themselves. And this is what he said:

‘Such, my Beloved, was the glorious mission of Israel!’—he meant the ex­ termination 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 ig­ norance—there they bow the black, frizzy head under the yoke of self-seek­ ing priests! There they pray to God, invoking a false prophet who is an abomination in the sight of the Lord! And, Beloved! as though it were not enough to obey a false prophet, there are even those among them who wor­ ship 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, Belov6d . . . tears almost keep me from continu­ ing; deeper even than this is the depravity of the Children of Ham! There SERMON OF THE REVEREND BLATHERER 31 are those among them who know no god, under whatever name! Who think it sufficient to obey the laws of civil society! Who deem a harvest song, wherein they express their joy over the success of their labours, sufficient thanks to the Supreme Being by Whom that harvest was allowed to ripen! Out there live lost ones, stray sheep, my Beloved, who assert that it is enough to love wife and child, and not to take from their neighbour what is not theirs, in order to be able at night to lay down their heads to sleep in peace! Do you not shudder at that picture? Do 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 from the unjust? Hear ye not? Yea, ye do hear, for from 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 from the unbaptized child that, scarce born, was flung away from the breast of the mother into the pool of everlasting damnation. . . . ’ Here a woman fainted. ‘But, Beloved,’ continued Parson Blatherer, ‘God 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 from the pains of hell! The ships of our Holland sail the great waters, to bring civili­ zation, 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 form the seventh part of my ad­ dress.’ (For what you have just read was the sixth.) The duties we had to per­ form 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 coloni­ al army recruiting depot. 32 MULT ATU LI

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 peti­ tion 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 propor­ tion 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 un­ derstandable. 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 mat­ ters. Well then, if he, with those reports before him and his eye on the Almighty, maintains that much work will favourably influence the con­ quest of Javanese souls for the Kingdom of God, then surely I may con­ clude 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 OF THE REVEREND BLATHERER 33 given me, a coffee broker, a hint which is not only important to all Hol­ land 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 terri­ ble 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 inten­ tions 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 re­ finers 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, / 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 suit­ able for coffee.

NOTES 1. 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.] 2. Driebergen. Fashionable village in the province of Utrecht, where the well-to-do retire. [Trans.] 34 MULTATULI

3. 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 Wester- market 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 Saijah 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 pre­ pared 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 Ban­ tam, 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 Saijah, who was still a child, and the little brothers and sisters of Saijah. 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 fa­ ther. 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. Saijah, who was then about seven years old, soon struck up a friend­ ship with the new buffalo. Not inadvisedly do I use the word “ friend­ ship” ; 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 under­ stands, with whom he has grown up. And such friendship, then, did little Saijah rapidly inspire in the new­ comer, and Saijah’s encouraging child’s voice seemed to give even great­ er 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 buf­ falo 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 Saijah. And when Adinda’s little brothers reached the border between the fields, at the same moment that Saijah 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 buffa­ loes. But I believe Saijah’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. Saijah was nine years old, and Adinda already six, when that buffalo was taken from Saijah’s father by the district chief of Parang-Kujang. This time Saijah’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 Saijah 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 Saijah’s father had not chosen to reply. And therefore Saijah feared that his buffalo had been slaughtered, like the other buffaloes which the district chief took from the people. And Saijah 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 Saijah was only a child. The new buffalo got to know Saijah 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 predeces­ sor which had been slaughtered; and though Saijah could no longer boast SAÜAH 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 pat­ tern 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, trem­ bled, 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. “ Saijah, 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, Saijah 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 Saijah off his balance. He fell to the ground. The ti­ ger 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 Saijah. 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 Sai'jah was saved. There had indeed been untung in that buffalo’s user-useran\ When this buffalo was taken from Sai'jah’s father and slaugh­ tered. . . . I told you, reader, that my story is monotonous. . . . When this buffalo was killed, Sai'jah had already seen twelve sum­ mers, and Adinda was already weaving sarongs, and batik'mg geometri­ cal 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 Sai'jah had been car­ ried 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 ani­ mal 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 Sai'jah’s mother was not the one who had ordered it to be killed. Eventually, Sai'jah’s father fled the country. For he was much afraid of being punished for not paying his land tax, and he had no more pusa- ka 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 par­ ents 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. Sai­ jah’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 Sai'jah’s little brothers and sisters I do not know. The SAU AH AND ADINDA 39 hut in which they lived at Badur stood empty for a while, but soon col­ lapsed, since it was only built of bamboo roofed with palm leaves. A lit­ tle dust and dirt covered the spot which had seen much suffering. There are many such spots in Lebak. Sai'jah 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 up­ set 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 buf­ faloes. 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 fa­ ther 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, Sai'jah! 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?” “ Sai'jah, 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, Sai'jah, how shall I know when I must go and wait for you at the ketapangV* Sai'jah 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 not­ ches, I shall arrive under the ketapang on the following day. Will you promise to be there?” “ Yes, Sai'jah! 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. Sai'jah 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 keta- pang 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 ke- tapang. 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 sepa­ rated 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 SAfJAH 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 Chipu- rut. “ 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 re­ membered 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 Saijah died, for he gave Adinda the rough edge of his tongue?” Thus his thoughts took a course that differed widely from their pre­ vious 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 in­ tention 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 Si- Unah. 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 ser­ vice 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 Euro­ pean civilization. Saijah soon learned Malay, but he behaved in an ex­ emplary 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. SAU AH AND ADINDA 43 But they thought Sa'ijah ungrateful when, after nearly three years’ ser­ vice, he gave notice and asked for a certificate of good conduct. How­ ever, they could not refuse him this; and Sa'ijah set out for his native vil­ lage with a joyful heart. He passed Pising, where Havelaar had once lived, long before. But that Sa'ijah 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 testi­ monial. 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 trea­ sures. 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 car­ ried a little silk bag containing some dried melati. Was it surprising that he tarried no longer at Tangerang than was nec­ essary 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 sen­ tenced to fourteen days’ detention in his father-in-law’s house for high­ way 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 MULTATULI 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 him­ self 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 pos­ sible—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 exqui­ site undulation to her small foot. . . . No, he heard but little of what people said to him. He heard quite dif­ ferent 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 re­ turn 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 near­ er 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 approach­ ing 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 Saijah’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 Sa'i- jah 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 per­ haps 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! Saijah 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 hu­ man 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 com­ fortable at the foot of the ketapang, and let his eyes stray over the coun­ tryside. Nature smiled on him, and seemed to bid him welcome as a mo­ ther 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 Saijah 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 vil­ lages 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. Saijah 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 AND ADINDA 47 tree, but so charming in its appearance and movements—clambered tire­ lessly 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 keta- pang. . . . 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 beloved! 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 ke­ tapang.

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! saKjah and adinda 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, Saijah 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, Saijah flew up the path that leads from the keta- pang to the village where Adinda lived. He saw nothing and heard noth­ ing, and yet he could have heard something, for there were people stand­ ing in the road at the entrance to the village who called “ Saijah, Saijah! ’’ But . . . was it his haste, his passion, which prevented him from find­ ing 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 loud­ ly: “ Drunk . . . drunk . . . I am drunk!’’ And the women of Badur came out of their houses, and with pity they saw poor Saijah 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 with­ out 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. Dur­ ing 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 skirt­ ed 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 Sai'jah 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: '7 do not know where I shall die. ” And some of the inhabitants of Badur put money together to pay for a sacrifice to the crocodiles of the Chiu- jung for the recovery of Sai'jah, 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-bale 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 moun­ tain peaks. Yes, it must be there . . . Adinda had lived there1. Stumbling over half-decayed bamboo and fragments of the fallen roof, he cleared a way for himself to the sanctuary he sought. And in­ deed, 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 a n d 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 vil­ lage to find the block. When she was able to tell Sai'jah 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 sor­ row 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. Saijah 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 kelewang-bayonet wound in the chest. Beside him Saijah 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 Saijah 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 thanks­ giving rose to heaven from the hearts of the godly on learning that the “Lord of Hosts” had again fought under the Dutch banner. . . . “ Bui, moved by so much woe, that day God turned their offerings away!” I have made the end of Sai'jah’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 Sai'jah. 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 Sai'jah 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 Adin- das and many Sai'jahs, 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—state­ ments which would only have power to convince those who had the pa­ tience to read through them with an attention and interest not to be ex­ pected 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 truths O that I were summoned to substantiate what I have written! O that people would say: “You have in­ vented 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 de­ spoiled 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 SA'f JAH 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 be­ cause 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 Saijah 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 Saijah . . . the ill-treatment of the Ja­ vanese is not so great an evil as it would be if you had drawn your Saijah 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 Saijahs 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 Saijah. 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 Con- troleur Verbrugge—a note which I have before me. But I have other evidence! And that is just as well, for Havelaar’s pre­ decessor might also have been wrong. Alas! If he was wrong, he paid very dearly for it! 54 MULTATULI

NOTES 1. 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 cer­ tain 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 word- list 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 pro­ cess of batik, paint is poured out of a little can over the material. [Ed.] 2. 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 In­ disch 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 Hid­ den Force was written in 1899, during Couperus’s second stay in the In­ dies. 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 Leonie. They have no chil­ dren, but Van Oudijck has several children from his first marriage: Theo and Doddie who live with their father and stepmother, and the twins Rene 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 chil­ dren. Leonie 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 Ou­ dijck’s own family there is a driving force, an erotic desire, which unites Van Oudijck’s second wife Leonie and his son Theo. Here again Van Oudijck fails to notice. Couperus does not harshly judge the resident. In­ deed 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 appre­ ciation 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. Re­ printed with permission from the publisher. The Hidden Force

The early hours of the day were often cool, washed clean by the abun­ dant 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 high­ er 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 god­ like 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, let­ ting 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 melan­ choly; the road and gardens were dripping, drinking up the falling tor­ rents 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. “ It’s nonsense, Oorip!” she cried, peevishly. “ Really not, kandjeng,” said the maid. “ It’s not nonsense. I hear them every evening.” “Where?” asked Theo. “ In the waringin tree behind the house, high up, in the top branches.” “ It’s luaks,” said Theo. “ It’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.” “ It’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 lit­ tle 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 me.” “ 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. ...” “ What of her?” “ 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?” “ Don’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. L6onie mechanically pressed closer to Theo. She looked deathly pale. The roomy back verandah, with the table al­ ways 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 war- ingins, full of pattering drops but motionless in the impenetrable masses of their velvety foliage. And an inexplicable, almost imperceptible croon­ ing, 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. “ What sort of animal can it be?” asked Theo. “ Is it birds or insects?” The moaning and sobbing was very distinct. L6onie looked white as a sheet and was trembling all over. “ Don’t be so frightened,” said Theo. “Of 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, humb­ ly, 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, un­ derstanding 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 in­ terlacing 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 in­ doors, on the verge of fainting. Theo and Oorip followed her. The mid­ dle gallery was lighted. Van Oudijck’s office was open. He was working. Leonie 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 her­ self 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. Leonie and Theo had recovered themselves. “What is it, Leonie?” “ 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 trem­ bling. 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. “ You know THE HIDDEN FORCE 61 what the Javanese are like: they won’t use the well as long as they’ve not had a sedekah. ” “ No,” said Van Oudijck, unwillingly, shaking his head. “ To 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.” “ Do, Otto,” Leonie entreated. “ I should give them the sedekah. You’ll please me if you do.” “ 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 un­ willingness, though he was seldom able to refuse his wife anything. “ No, Leonie,” he said, decidedly. “ And 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, aim­ lessly, they moved away, to the front verandah, where a moist, dripping darkness drifted between the stately pillars. They saw a white form com­ ing 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 veran­ dah, 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 twi­ light 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, Leonie,” he whispered. “ Yes, but then what is it?” she murmured in return. “After ail, I heard the moaning and heard the stone whizz through the air.” “And then?” “ What?” “ If it «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 us\” 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 for­ ward . . . 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. . . .” “To torment him?” “ Because the regent of Ngadjiwa has been dismissed.” “ Does Oorip say that?” “No, 7 do. Oorip said that the regent had occult powers. That’s non­ sense, 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 practi­ cal 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 Leonie: “ 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: “ Leonie, what rot!” “ Strange things happen here, in India. . . . If they bury something be­ longing 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 late­ ly. . . . Theo, ca« 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 “ Is the kandjeng tuan up?” “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. ...” “ The kandjeng never used to have the lamp lit in the bathroom.” “Oorip . . . has anything happened . . . this afternoon?” “ No, everything has been quiet. . . . But oh, when the night comes! . . . All the servants are frightened, kandjeng. . . . The koki says she won’t stay. ...” “ Oh, what a susah! . . . Oorip, promise her five guilders . . . as a present . . . if she stays. . . .” “The spen is frightened too, kandjeng.” “ Oh, what asusah! . . . I’ve never had such a susah, Oorip. . . .” “ No, kandjeng.” “ I have always been able to arrange matters so well. . . . But these are things! ...” “Apa boleh buat, kandjeng? . . . Things are stronger than men. y y “ Mightn’t it really be luaks . . . and a man throwing stones?” “Massa, kandjeng!” “ Well, 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 waringins. 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?” “Come, light the lamps! Why 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 off 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. “ Have you brought everything, Oorip?” “Saja, kandjeng. ” “ Haven’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.’’ “No, no! Stay here, stay and sit by the door.’’ “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’ll 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 no­ thing 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 future,” thought Leonie. She removed her kimono and sarong; and, standing naked, she glanced in the mirror at her soft, milk white contours, the rounded out­ lines 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 her­ self, 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 her­ self, briskly, with the white ointment which Oorip always prepared, her magic elixir of youth, suppleness and firm whiteness. . . . At that move­ ment, 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 bathroom- 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, na­ ked, 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!” Leonie 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, Leonie?” 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 spat ... 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 swim­ ming 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 si­ lent rain was beginning to fall. . . .

Leonie 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 hap­ penings 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 enor­ mous 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 sug­ gested 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 po­ lice. 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 unosten­ tatiously, 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 Rene 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 full- blooded Hollander, he did not like the De Luces, he consented. They were fond of Doddie there: she would have a better time than at Labu- wangi. He had given up his idea, the hope that Doddie would not become Indianized. Suddenly, Theo also went away: through Leonie’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 of­ fice 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 fur­ niture, white ants devoured the mats, mildew and patches of moisture came through the walls. The resident never went through the house, oc­ cupying 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 approach­ ing 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 se­ cret 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 be­ lieve 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 investigat­ ed all these facts, as punctiliously as though he were investigating a crimi­ nal case, and nothing came to light. He remained unperturbed in his rela­ tions 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 whis­ pering, 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.” “ To 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.” “ No . . . 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 re­ turned, 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 bod­ ies 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 suit­ ing 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 sugges­ tion of a man who is plagued all day long, in a deserted house, by strange and incomprehensible happenings. There was hardly a shadow of dejec­ tion on his wide forehead, hardly a care seemed to rest upon his broad, slightly bowed back: and the jovial, smiling line about his thick mous­ tache was there as usual. Eldersma came up; and Eva divined in his greet­ ing, in his pressure of the hand, a silent freemasonry of things known, of confidences shared in common. And Van Oudijck drank his gin and bit­ ters in a perfectly normal manner, spoke of a letter from his wife, who was probably going on to Batavia, said that Rene 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 entire­ ly 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 ex­ tremely 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 thou­ sands of ghostly sounds that kept her from sleeping. Through it all the tokkes and geckos emitted their clockwork strokes, like strange myster­ ious 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. And 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 en­ chanted 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. “And how does India suit you this evening, mevrouwtje?” It was always more or less the same pleasantry; but each time she ad­ mired 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 conscien­ tiously than ever; he continued his investigations. And 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. And he talked with an easy, plea­ sant 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 obses­ sion. And 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. And he added that he really ought to be going on circuit, but that he would not go, lest he should seem to be run­ ning 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. The last words sounded like a friendly admonition. She pressed his hand once more, with tears in her eyes. And she watched him walk away, with his calm, firm step, and disappear in the darkness of his garden, where the en­ chantment must be creeping in through the croaking of the frogs. But standing there like that made her shudder; and she hurried indoors. And she felt that her house, that roomy house of hers, was small and unduly open and defenseless against the vast Indian night, which could enter from every side. But she was not the only person obsessed by the mysterious happen­ ings. Their inexplicable nature lay like an oppression over the whole town, so completely did it clash with the things of everyday life. The 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. And 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 down on the town in a dense, velvety greyness; and the town seemed to be hiding itself more deeply than ever in the foliage of 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. He wrote to the major commanding the garrison at Ngadjiwa to come over with a captain, a couple of lieutenants and a company of soldiers. That evening, the officers, with the resident and Van Helderen, dined at the Elders- mas’. They hurried through their meal; and Eva, standing at the garden gate, saw them all—the resident, the secretary, the controller and the four officers—go into the dark garden of the haunted house. The resi­ dency grounds were shut off, the house surrounded and the churchyard watched. The men went to the bathroom by themselves. They remained there all through the night. And all through the night the grounds and house remained shut off and surrounded. They came out at about five o’clock and went straight to the swimming bath and bathed, all of them together. What had happened to them they did not say, but they had had a terrible night. That morning the bathroom was pulled down. 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. The officers too, on their return to Ngadjiwa, were silent. They merely said that their night in the bathroom was too improbable for any one to be­ lieve the story. At last one of the young lieutenants allowed a hint of his 74 LOUIS COUPERUS adventures to escape him. And a tale of s/r/Ti-spitting and stone-throw­ ing, of a floor that heaved, while they struck at it with sticks and swords, and of something more, something unutterably horrible that had hap­ pened 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 govern­ ment. 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 re­ gent, on matters of business. And, in his intercourse with the regent, the resident remained stern and formal. Then he had a brief interview, first with the regent and afterwards with his mother, the Raden-Aju Pangeran. The two conversations did not last longer than twenty minutes. But it appeared that those few words were of great and porten­ tous moment. For the strange happenings ceased. When everything had been cleaned and repaired, under Eva’s supervision, Van Oudijck compelled Leonie 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 o f honour that no more glasses will be broken in my house, except by accident or care­ lessness.” 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 large­ ly 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 Java­ nese 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 col­ onies.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 THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE 77

Most of Augusta de Wit’s readers had not visited the continent she de­ scribes, 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 civi­ lization, 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 pro­ vide, it is Augusta de Wit’s accomplishment to create an appreciation of a foreign culture, heretofore inaccessible.2

NOTES 1. 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 Indone­ sian culture and a more humane treatment of the Indonesians. 2. 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. Re­ printed 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 moss- grown mound on the skirt of the wood, between a clear well and a white­ flowering kambodja thicket that strews the mound with its lustrous and fragrant chalices. The verses which the dalang, the poet-musician of San­ gean, 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 na­ tions 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 for­ sook 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 attain­ able by the man who is a lord over other men, and who never, as fellow- in-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 un­ watched. And whatsoever he perceived in the forest, by night or by day, the budding and the flourishing and the fading of the leafage, the bloom­ ing 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 ani­ mals, 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 under­ standing. 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 transpar­ ently 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 dwell­ ing 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—secret­ ly, 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 ex­ periences 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 sor­ row 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 choos­ ing of the name, and did not even look up when a young friend of Inten, who had just become a mother herself, laid little Kairan 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 in­ terwoven with flowers that she seemed to be clothed in blossoms, Inten was seated at the grave, and she herself, holding little Kairan 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 Kai'ran’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 ten­ derness 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 hand­ some, 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 Cus­ tom; 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-Ka'iran 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-Ka'iran 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 batiking THE THREE WOMEN IN THE SACRED GROVE 83 of sarongs and head-kerchiefs and slendangs. The Chinaman in tow n- how sharply he used to look at the work through his large horn-rimmed spectacles!—always gave more for hers than for that of any of the other women. She feared, it is true, that she should no longer be able to do it so well. But with the thought of Inten in her heart she did her utmost. Her batiking-frame stood under the eaves, there where the shadow stayed longest. She squatted down before the length of white cotton cloth hanging from the frame, and, intent upon the work, began drawing the figures of the design she had planned. The fine jet of molten wax running from the spout of the tiny batikring-bowl, no larger than the cup of an acorn, fashioned leafy tendrils on 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. How many times from childhood onward had she not prepared those dyes, after the same prescription always; how often with the little jet of molten wax, blackened by reiterated use, and scraping off, and melting down again, traced that design exactly as she had seen it growing under her mother’s batiking-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 of the Sacred Grove, where she chose to live rather than in the kraton of her father the sultan. The nymphs who have their abode in the wood were her companions. She never stood in need of food or of the things neces­ sary to her work; for the wood-doves brought her plenty of sweet berries and nuts out of the tall trees; the grey monkeys knew when she was thirsty and came to her carrying in their hands “ the little cool wellspring that hovers in the air,’’ the ripe fruit of the coco 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 wax with which to trace her design, whilst on all the bushes the most beautiful flowers bloomed for her to gather and prepare dyes from. The little jester of the wood, the dwarf hart, that is wittier and merrier than all other animals, would caper and frolic before her and tell her all manner of stories, the drollest it could think of. Whoever knew about this would easily recognize it all in the batik-design; although much of it had been lost at the hands of careless batiktrs, whose thoughts were of other things, so that the true shape of what the Princess-in-the-Wood had imagined no longer appeared upon their cloth, but only a shadow as unsteady and distorted as the shadows upon the wall when the flickering oil wick is lit. Nor 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 bati/dng-bowl. Wondering and rejoicing, she saw how the flowers she traced with yellow wax upon white cloth nevertheless resem­ bled 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 Mboq- Inten’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 Kairan, 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 hap­ py 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 sal­ vation out of the Sacred Grove; in vain longing, helpless, scorned. At the same time as Inten’s parents, the parents of Sameerah had pre­ pared 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 proces­ sion, surrounded by a guard of honour. And they who celebrate the feast, youths and maidens, promise each other their own marriage. Pa­ rents 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 instru­ ments, 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. And when once more the mar­ riage of the Rice is celebrated, proud mothers appear amongst the shy girls in the harvest field. At last year’s feast they carried a sheaf of rice- ears 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 hap­ pened 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. And 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 be­ cause Sameerah was unhappy and ashamed. Even as the fowls in the gar­ den 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 con­ temptuous glance and scornful words hacked at Sameerah’s barrenness. Those eyes, always cast down and so often red with crying, that timid at­ titude, 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 dis­ tant 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 of­ fering 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 keba- ja, 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 all 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 her­ self. 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-Noor­ din 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 Mboq- Noordin’s taunts and cruelties, nor Noordin’s contempt, which some­ times turned to rough usage. Her face grew still and rigid as the counte­ nance 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 Noor- din 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. “ Why 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 high­ way 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 neighbour­ hood, market folk were on their way. Along the footpath on either side of the wide road, where bullock carts were slowly jolting on and horse­ men 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 carrying- scarf; 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 over­ spread 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: “ Eh! 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 mo­ tionless 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 in­ to 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 sun­ shine 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 shin­ ing 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 AUCUSTA DE WIT down upon her and all around her—great white blosscms that lay lustrous among the shadows of the sparse set rosettes of pointed leaves overhead. She picked up one and, inhaling its subtly sweet s;ent, 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 ajo 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 sha­ dows 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 won­ derful 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 disbe­ lief, some saying with a shrug that this was the mere daydream of a good- for-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 batiktr 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 Soomberting- ghi, 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/W/i-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 authori­ ty 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 Kairan 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 b} the Sultan’s tomb, all clothed in flowers and crowned with flowers like a Dride.” 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 dowi her face as again and again she called out Inten’s name in a desperate jibilation, the old woman, catching her grandchild up to her breast, ran up the hill with the light-footed speed of a girl. Sameerah, awakened fron 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 boti 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 cloid of flower- starred 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 long­ ing 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 lit­ tle 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 remain­ ed alive, after thou hadst died; nay, I myself too would have died of sor­ row, 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 Kairan 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!” Kairan took courage. He thought of the many things that had been promised him for mother’s return. Between vanishing shyness and begin­ ning confidence he peeped up at her from under his eyelashes. “What has Mother brought Kairan?” 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 Kairan 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 remem­ bers everything! So thou wert too, my child, wise from childhood on­ ward. 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 Kairan 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 Mar- joos had believed and still maintained, all but crying with disappoint­ ment; 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 % 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 hap­ pened at the Sultan Hermit’s tomb: why, then, not this one of Inten re­ turning from the grave? So that as Paq-Inten, irresolute and something afraid, came forward, the crowd urging him on encouragingly, everyone expected him to de­ clare: “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 Ka'iran 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 radi­ ance 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! Joyful­ ly 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 careful­ ly 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, en­ tirely 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 bound­ ary 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 in­ dulgently shrugged his shoulders, frowned at a sudden reflection. Was this child’s talk about a woman risen from the grave as harmless as it ap­ peared? 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 deli­ verance 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 hus­ band’s arm, her eyes upon his, implored: “ Suffer these roses of imagina­ tion 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 du­ ty to maintain the established order in spiritual things as well as in mate­ rial. 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 be­ ing who was kind to her; and she held Kai'ran 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 crav­ ing 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 be­ ings 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 ex­ cess 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 her­ self, her pallor, the dark and fervid tenderness in her eyes, and her pas­ sionate 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 beseeching­ ly. 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-Kairan. 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 mani­ fold, 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 trave­ logue. 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 at­ tention of many a Dutch child on a rainy afternoon.1

NOTE 1. The following excerpt is taken from Johan Fabricius, Java Ho! The Adventures o f 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 shin­ ing.” 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 flut­ tered 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 Hajo 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 now!” he cried. “This pheasant with rice, maize, dried fish, two eggs for Padde. . . and Dolimah is gathering herbs and fruit.” 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. Hajo 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. “ Harmen 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 stum­ bled 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 JOHAN 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 cor­ ner and raged. Then it occurred to him to call for help. “ Ho! 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 stum­ bled 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 hero­ ism. . . . 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 pale 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 clamber­ ing 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 pheas­ ant, rice, herbs and fruit. They had been wondering why Harmen re­ mained 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 JOHAN 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 an­ cient 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 to­ wards 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 monoto­ nously, 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 Här­ men 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 hap­ pened. 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 JOHAN 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 him­ self 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 dukun won’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 walk­ ing with the easy, quick tread of those used to carrying heavy loads. Doli­ mah 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. “ It’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 furi­ ously. “A pig!” murmured Harmen in disgust. “Come, I’ll help you.” 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. “ It’s not a deer,” replied Harmen, “ but 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. “There!” 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. “ He couldn’t get back,” ex­ plained Dolimah, “after we’ve broken it down behind us.” “ How about you?” asked Rolf, looking at her. “ I can’t go back anyway,” she replied softly. “Why not?” asked Saleiman shyly. “Oh, 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! “Goodby!” 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 moon­ light 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 weie. 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 sleep­ ing, 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 march. When Rolf asked her of what she was thinking, she shook her head. But later she began speaking of her little brothers and sisters, espe­ cially of her little brother Dajik. “ He’ll be grieving that I’m gone,” she sighed. “ He 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 re­ turn 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! Seagulls!” 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, creep­ ers, 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 moth­ erland 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 In­ disch 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 con­ tributor 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 co­ lonial literature De Muze van Jan Companie (1939) and a historical novel about Onno Zwier van Haren (the author of Agon de Sultan van Ban­ tam)1 called Schandaal in Holland{1939). After returning to Holland, du Perron died after a short illness May 14, 1940.

NOTES 1. This excerpt from The Land o f Origin (chapters 12 and 16), was previously published in Harvest of the Lowlands, ed. J. Greshoff (New York: Querido, 1945), pp. 420-442. There it was entitled “The Indonesian Child Grows Up Quickly.” Reprinted with permission from the publisher. 2. The first Dutch drama with an East Indian content, published in 1769. The Land of Origin

My governess’ name was Kitty Wahl, but to me she was “ Nona Dobleh’’: the lady with the hanging-lip. She had kinky hair and small black eyes and she was very temperamental and she preferred playing rough games with us—that is with Flora, myself and the native children in our own “yard.” She would collapse in our midst, and then we would have to pull her up or walk on her until she came to. A pronounced Javanese accent caused her to speak Dutch with accentuated h’s, as with a “blow on the gong,” as it was called. Her mother, moreover, was Javanese and sometimes came to call on her. Out of respect for her, the governess asked leave twice a week to meet her in the warung of Po Sen, because in our house the woman would have felt rather embarrassed. My mother could do nothing but give in to such a delicate form of childish affection; but in the waning the timid Javanese woman would resolutely take the shape of a European sergeant. I was already acquainted with the picture of this sergeant, because my governess had shown it to me with some pride; because of my admiration for the military, I was the obvious confidant in this case. But when the servants told my mother about this metamorphosis, the governess was immediately dismissed. I have never understood why my mother was so fussy about the lack of sexual absti­ nence in those in whose care I was put; the only explanation she gave for it was that it would bring sial (bad luck). Shortly before Kitty Wahl left something strange happened within me: I thought, or perhaps I was only dreaming, that as we were playing she suddenly fell between us, that she sent all the native children away and then asked Flora and me to massage her, during which performance she was completely naked. Of my sexual precociousness there was no doubt. A long time before THE LAND OF ORIGIN 115 this I had made friends with an Ambonese woman who had been married to a European and was therefore addressed as Mevrouw. She gave me the chromos of princes and Boer generals that hung in her house, every time I called on her, but that was not the principal attraction. She was no longer young and was as black as a Negro, but beneath her kebaja, which always was carelessly left open, hung two enormous black breasts. One day when she personally brought me back to my mother she said: “ It is funny, Mevrouw, but do you believe it, that child has only eyes for my t e t e k Grown-up people are in the habit of laughing with superior secretiveness at that kind of innocence. Perhaps a year later, a real Euro­ pean lady was staying with us, a stately fair woman who read a lot and walked with me in the garden. I lied to her about all sorts of childish fan­ tasies, among other things that I always crossed the river swimming; she seemed to listen attentively to my stories and did not tell my parents about my lies, but called herself my “ lady friend,” which filled me with pride and was something no other grown-up person had done before. One day she was going shopping with my mother; the carriage was brought in front of the house, and my mother sent me to tell the lady that we were ready to go. She was not ready and, probably in order not to tell my mother about it but to return with me, she called me in and let me sit on a chair. As a knightly servant I witnessed the rest of her toilet. She went to sit in front of the mirror and soon she was naked to the waist; when she bent over I saw her in two different ways, that is, from the front in the mirror and from the side in reality. I had often seen my mother undressed, but I held my breath, did not say a word and took it all in, and up to this day I do not think I have forgotten the impression. She was pinkish white and must have been about thirty-five years old at the time; her high coiffure, black hair, the whiteness of her body and especially her breasts, and the complete naturalness with which she finished her toilet in my presence—how little perhaps does such a woman know what she gives in passing to a boy of perhaps seven or eight? I thought of her naked body when she had already been sitting for a long time next to my mother, in a smart dress. That same day she bought me a book, in which she wrote in tall characters: For Arthur Ducroo from his big friend Mevrouw O---- . I never saw her again, at least not from near­ by. Much later, when I was perhaps eighteen, she passed in a car, while I was standing with guests on the front verandah; there were two ladies in the open car, one was she, but both waved. What I caught in passing of her face did not correspond with my remembrance of her, but it was as if her waving was particularly directed at me. I had forgotten that other People were standing next to me. If she had then stepped out of the car and I had pressed her hand, I would certainly have tried to retrieve the CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON 116 memory of my “ big friend’’ and the secret of a past time. I really had everything necessary in order to be initiated by a friend of my mother. Then it would not have happened as on that dismal evening, because the other was not there, and out of pride before my friends I accomplished the first amorous game with a native night beauty with a face like tue back of a shoe. If the theory is really correct that all our inclinations towards the other sex are based upon our first impressions, I was perhaps the dupe of the older women whom I continually saw around me during my childhood. A woman with small, high breasts always seemed ridiculous and unreal to me while, as a child, I experienced a sexual thrill at the tale of the kelong W6W6, a female spirit with enormous breasts, who kidnaps children that are often later discovered sleeping in or under a tree and whom she has kept all this time as if under her wings, caressing and hiding them. In my imagination this spirit was not repulsive to me. Later on Catherine the Great of Russia seemed more desirable to me, as pic­ tured in a historical book, than all the young women. These cerebral in­ clinations I have never followed in reality, but perhaps rather out of discretion than on account of sound reactions; an older woman who has some charm left seems even today in principle more attractive and engag­ ing to me than a young one. The truth is, however, that few past a certain age still keep the necessary charm. Yet when I was still very young I was already falling in love with young women. In Soekaboemi, near Wa Gedah, I met a girl perhaps sixteen years old, who was called Den Boewah (Fruit). I have completely forgot­ ten her, but the old Wa Gedah later on teased me that I had really been in love with her. I stayed around her, did not dare look at her when she looked at me and, when they drove me to her, I was supposed to have said with a great deal of coquetry: “ No, I won’t go with something called ‘fruit’ ’’—plain marks of amorousness indeed. But at the same time I was mostly a quiet and serious child. My parents took me along on a visit to my uncle the general. He was a robust man with a deep voice, pouches under his eyes and grey, flowing whiskers, the type of the old growler; for me his uniform was an object of the greatest admiration. His wife, my father’s sister, was an example of a sweet lady and gave me much lemonade while she quarrelled with my parents about the foolishness of teaching me to recite “Our Father.’’ Their daughter, then twenty-three years old was as pretty as a picture and played the piano holding me on her lap. My aunt said: “ I never dare to talk simply to the child; he looks at me out of his big black eyes and then gives me an ironical smile, I tell you.’’ “ And when you grow up,” she would ask, “ what do you want to be?” “ A naval officer.” “ And what will you do?” “ I’ll sink Uncle THE LAND OF ORIGIN 117 Jan.” He was told about it and called out in a thunderous voice: “Then you want to sink meV' And I would hide behind a chair, scared to death and had to be comforted again with lemonade. The daughter walked through my room one afternoon and, as it was very warm, she simply un­ dressed me and let me lie quite naked on the counterpane for health’s sake. She really had less knowledge of human beings than my aunt. I hardly dared nor could protest, but as soon as she had left I called for Alima to dress me again as quickly as possible. Not ten minutes had passed before my big niece passed through the room again. “ What? Is that child dressed again?” she asked. “ Yes, nona,” said Alima timidly, “but leave him that way; he isn’t accustomed to the other way, you see.” Perhaps I was in love with the beautiful niece; the more reason for my prudish reaction. Before we went back to Sand Bay, I would go to school again for a while. I must have been eight years old at the time, because I was too old to be a beginner and as the son of a gentleman I had to be guarded against bad company. I was sent to an institution run by Ursulines, where little boys of over ten were considered too masculine to stay or to be admitted. I was therefore already one of the oldest boys, but I felt very miserable when I was put in a class with the other children. My mother had told me that she would stay outside to talk with the sisters. At the first recreation period I realized that I had been fooled: I kept quiet and sat down on a bench; immediately a little blond boy with a sugary expression on his face came up to me and said in a bleating tone (I do not think that he meant to tease me): “ Oh, what a sweet little boy!” These completely unexpected words robbed me of what remained of my dignity; I jumped up, and two sisters tried in vain to seize me. I ran out of the garden, across the street and into the barracks that were on the other side. The soldiers received me with cheers and laughter, and the sisters, who had followed me out into the street, quickly retreated. When I no longer saw them I called a sado and let myself be driven home. My return home filled the family with consternation and I was immediately taken back to school. I stayed but a few months with the Ursuline sisters. I remember only a few things: that I said “ Jah” in the clipped way that my father had, and that this was allowed when I explained that it was my father’s way; and again that I spun stories for my preferred sister, Mother Jozefa, namely, that every morning I wrestled in the stable with my little native friends and that as true wrestlers they only wore trunks. In order to show her precisely what I meant, I drew the picture of a little man on my slate, about as I had seen it in a book. “ But that is a grown-up man,” said the sister, knowing the difference. “Yes,” I said, “but that’s the way I am.” CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON 118 I was not punished on account of my fibbing, probably because the sister was enough of an educator to classify my lying as fantasy. I was, more­ over, considered a hero in school and always chased the whole class in front of me on the playground. A little girl with fair tresses, whose pretty face I only then learned to appreciate, looked admiringly and dreamily at me from a bench. A sister suddenly grasped her by the shoulders and said: “ Do you think it is right, what he’s doing?” and she nodded with something like ecstasy in her eyes. But soon our family would have to return to the wilderness, and so I acquired a new governess, who took me to school in the morning. I do not know why, but one morning i had the feeling that I had lost her. Quite upset I ran along the street in the hope of overtaking her and passed the “ real” school not far from the Ursulines. A number of older boys stood at the gate; they shouted something at me and as I was run­ ning by I called out anxiously “ Have you seen my governess?” —at which the whole group burst out laughing. I was humiliated and at the same time I felt sharply that I would not be able to become a hero in that school. The new governess’ name was Bertha Hessing. She was tall and white and the only pure-blooded Hollander among all my governesses. At first she made quite an impression on me and when I became familiar with her, I liked her in a different way from the other governesses. She talked much more with me. I also looked upon her as the “ big friend and we had the feeling that we always had something to say to each other. She told Flora and me marvelous stories, which she invented herself, she said. In reality, they came out of her favorite book, “ Adam Bede,” with its characters disguised as princes and princesses: there was Prince Adam, a bad Prince Arthur, a Princess Hetty, etc.-that there was such rivalry between the two princes that it made the fairy tale more fascinating to me than all the others. Through Governess Hessing (who was not called by her Christian name like the other governesses) I almost lost my belief in Santa Claus, about whose existence I had never thought much until then or whom I perhaps thought of as one Santa Claus among thousands of existing Santa Clauses. He now suddenly wrote to me a let­ ter in purple ink, wherein I was told that this year I would still get presents but next year no longer, “ if the little boy persisted in swearing so badly.” The purple ink on the letter exuded a disagreeable smell, ab­ solutely identical with the little bottle of purple ink with which Governess Hessing wrote her letters. But I solved the riddle by believing that the presents came from Santa Claus and the note from her in order to frighten me. She went with us to Sand Bay and walked with me along the beach. In THE LAND OF ORIGIN 119 the direction of Tjimarindjoeng our walks were quiet and dark, as if we were going through a magic land. The other way was more populated; in the first place one passed the winged praus, the most primitive model of a boat, a small, roughly hollowed out tree trunk with wings of bamboo on both sides to prevent it from tipping over: the whole thing reminded one of a see-saw on dry land. Fish scales, and in places a small dead fish, lay here on the sand, and at set times the fishers would push their boats into the sea. When my father had brought over some of his Batavian sailors, I had looked with disdain upon these fishermen of Balekambang. Now, however, my governess and I were fascinated by their activities, while we gathered shells on the beach. She taught me to gather the beautiful ones and leave the ugly ones alone, let me listen to the roar of the sea in some of them and continued chatting with me. She told me about her fiance who was in Singapore and showed me his picture: a very fine gentleman, I thought, with his hand upon his side and his small turned-up mus­ taches, and I had to call him “Uncle Edwin.” “And what are you going to give me when I marry Uncle Edwin?” I promised her a box filled with shells, but those she could gather herself; then a box with postage stamps because she had to write so often. But if she did not write to Uncle Ed­ win, who then would be with her? By arousing my interest in Uncle Ed­ win and her marriage, she increased my jealousy. I cared so much for her that I neglected my mother. “You don’t care for your mother any longer, you are in love with your governess,” mother would say. And, with a kind of hatred perhaps against all “ intellectuals.” “ And she is such a real tot ok; she never brushes her teeth.” Miss Hessing left and was replaced again by an unadulterated daughter of the native soil, with a broad face, unbelievably long hair and again a strong Javanese accent. Her name was Fientje Flikkenschild, and I right away took a dislike to her; she followed me everywhere as if I were a baby and she answered all my questions with her gong-beat accent: “Joost van den Vondel may know.” 1 One day I emptied the half-filled chamber pot over her hands; my father, who saw this, gave me the worst beating I had ever received. He beat me with the flat of his hand; he was so furious that my governess thought he was going to murder me. From that day on every close contact with him was a thing of the past: I ran away when I but heard his voice or saw him approach from a distance. I had always been afraid of him but from that moment on I considered him as an evil spirit. My mother told me later that sometimes I would beg her on my knees not to tell something or other to my father; I don’t remember that, but it may very well have been true. He beat me perhaps because of righteous anger, perhaps because of hidden anger against his coolies, perhaps out of chivalrousness towards my governess, whose hair 120 CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON was so long that it must have been a joy to his eyes. That, at least, was my mother’s interpretation; she angrily took my part and did not rest un­ til the governess had departed on a prau. She left probably the next day, after a stormy evening session between my parents, very poorly handled by my strong father. In order not to have to bid her goodbye, I had hid­ den in a new place, where the praus were stored away near the Tjikanteh. I discovered a new friend in the aristocratic Ading, a rather light hued native of about twenty-four who wore his hair in a knot atop his head. He was the greatest rival of Moenta in the whole of Balekambang; less shrewd and articulate, but finer in appearance and lighter of color: from him I received at the age of nine my first lessons in sexology, in the same building where the praus were put away and where I had hidden myself when my most detested governess had departed. He explained to me what a man and a woman did (as an example he rather took a boy and a girl) who wanted “ to form one body.” When I finally understood what he meant, though I still looked at him unbelievingly, he said: “All the small boys in the village who go bathing do it with their little sister.” Then he enlarged upon the subject by comparing both of our persons; the difference was really startling in many respects. “ But can’t two men ever do anything together?” I asked, and it was surely less from an evil inclination than from the fact that I had never given up the idea that my mother was like a man in this respect. “ Yes,” he said, “but it is very dif­ ficult and would be very painful.” I did not at all have the personal friendship for Ading that I felt for Moenta, and it was quite by chance that I sat that afternoon with him in that building. One day the rivalry between him and Moenta took on such proportions that both drew their knives; their fathers came running, Isnan, I think, with a rifle, and perhaps it was this that prevented a disaster. Ading was the oldest of four or five brothers, some good-looking, some ugly, their faces pockmarked. After his instructions, I understood what my father meant when he called him one day to tell him that he and all his brothers would have to leave the premises, because they only knew how to work with one instrument (and he named it). I do not believe that there was much perversion in Ading’s opinion that I should know about certain things; his answer on the last question proved that, unless it was that he was afraid “ to injure a child of white parents.” But I found another teacher in Kiping, the foreman of the Batavian sailors; Kiping told me fairy tales in which such matters were treated in the simplest manner. A fairy tale would start for instance: “Once upon a time there were a man and woman who liked to form one body together [la bete ä deux dos of Rabelais] and who had many children in consequence.” When sexual matters shocked me, it was THE LAND OF ORIGIN 121 usually not the natives who were responsible; in their teaching, absence of tact was excellently replaced by complete naturalness.

From now on I received instruction from my father. The governesses were no good; he would do it himself. He had therefore gone to a teacher who had given him a list of all the books that were used in his school. The rice-hulling works were now active, and every morning before he went there he gave me a lesson. It was my good fortune that I was not mentally lazy, because in that case he might have mistreated me and then left me to my fate. He instructed me in everything: Dutch, history, geography, arithmetic—and while he was in the factory he let me do a lot of work by myself, and in the evening when he came home, no matter how tired, he would go over what I had learned, looked into what I had accomplished. Because of this persistence alone he deserves my gratitude; as I got to know him later on, with his hatred for schoolteachers, his anger and his pent-up irritation with the Sundanese, I am surprised that he gave himself so much trouble. Sometimes he would throw books at my head and called me a triple ass, but he kept at it, and for him it must have been worse than for me, though I considered him a tyrant and a schoolteacher and as a teacher, a tyrant too. My mother sometimes tried to intercede and asked him to give me less work; he should not forget that he was giv­ ing me private lessons, etc., etc. As a reward he lent me books, most of which I had already read in private. Two or three of Walter Scott, those that were less chaste than the others, he eliminated; I read them in the same way I had the others. I searched all the boxes and closets, when I could no longer find any books of my own to read, and one day discov­ ered a catalogue of semipornographic literature with illustrations; in one of them a farm boy tried to overpower a girl on the grass and beneath it it read: Oh, Tony, if your mother only knew!—Don’t worry, she knows more about it than you do! This illustration remained a mystery to me, in spite of all the natives’ revelations. What did mother know better? I asked myself. Why did that boy struggle with that girl, and on what occa­ sion would my mother have had to struggle like that? Sometimes my father called me to him outside of lessons, as formerly when I was allowed to play with his watch chain. But it was no longer the same; since he had given me the beating, he remained my enemy. Once I sang what I had to read, a little verse from a reader, because I happened to know the tune. My mother heard it and said: “ You must read it.’’ To my surprise he said: “ No, let him sing it.’’ I did not trust this either; I felt that my mother was right and that I was betraying something when I sang for my father’s pleasure. 122 CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON During my free time I organized a troupe of native playmates. The most important ones remained the children of the stable boy, Enih and Entjih, a boy and a girl. The girl was very imaginative and played “house” with my books; we could even construct houses of several stories; cut-out dolls were ladies and gentlemen calling on each other. Enih made up great stories of what happened between the Ducroo family and the Rengers family whom her father had served before. My imagina­ tion soon excelled hers, I thought that I had really been acquainted with the Rengers family, especially “ sinjo Rentie,” the son, who was at least ten years older than I and whom I only knew from Enih’s descriptions. I told her in all seriousness that I had had all kinds of adventures with him, that I had even once been with him hunting for tjuliks (kidnappers). “And did you shoot too?” Enih asked, sneering. “ No, but I walked behind him and was allowed to carry his gun.” When I became older and began to awaken sexually, I imagined that I was in love with Enih; this too started with dolls; she had to be a doll herself now, though it might have been a lady from a fashion catalogue, and the other doll was myself, and these two dolls I married in spite of her laughing protestations. One day I proposed to her to marry her real­ ly; she understood immediately what I meant but remarked that there was nowhere a place to perform the ceremony. I proposed all kinds of places, including a pit on the beach; she told me then that it was impossi­ ble because I was not circumcised and therefore was on the level of a Chinese to her. The great contempt in which the natives held the Chinese convinced me right away, but also the contempt I meant myself to have for the Chinese: that Enih did not want me as if I were a Chinese to her seemed irrefutable to me in logic. That I was in love was self-evident: all the knights in Walter Scott were so and ended by marrying. I was even violently in love with an illustra­ tion, showing Isabelle of Troyes who held out her hand to be kissed by Quentin Durward; the presence of the kneeling Durward did not inter­ fere with my love in the least, for I identified myself with him. Perhaps I felt myself in this manner represented by one of the heroes in every book I read. But sometimes the choice was difficult: in “ Ivanhoe” and “ The Talisman” but not because of the presence of Richard the Lionhearted, since without hesitation I chose Ivanhoe and Sir Kenneth as the younger ones, who did marry in the end; in “ Guy Mannering” I was in a quan­ dary because the hero of this tale became old and I had to wait for young Bertram who showed up for the first time in the middle of the book and whom I considered the real hero. In “ The Fair Maid of Perth” (one of the books I was not allowed to read) the choice was the most difficult: Henry Gow, the smith, was without doubt the hero and did indeed marry THE LAND OF ORIGIN 123 the beautiful girl, but he had a full-grown beard and was thirty and that made him old to me; I felt already much more attracted by the illustra­ tions of the two beardless young men, Conaghar and Robert of Rothsay, but the first had been beaten by Gow as a child and the second did not fight at all. From Walter Scott I derived a manner of looking at life which I wanted to be confirmed in each volume; before I started one, I would ask my father: “ Who is the hero? Who is his friend? Who is his enemy?” Even the finding of a real friend or a real enemy was sometimes rather difficult. In Soekaboemi, where I had cried over a book for the first time, when I read “ A Schoolboy” by Farrar, which my father himself called a “ magnificent book,” he said to me: “And don’t you think that some­ body must have suffered a lot, to be a good author?” I was completely bowled over by the idea; that there was some relation between the author, probably a gentleman like others, and his heroes had never oc­ curred to me, but such a sensitive remark, coming from my father, made me think. From that time on I began to look for the author’s suffering to appear through the book; I even found it in a book about Indians: the death of an old beaver hunter, a passage which I read to my mother with a lump in my throat but which left her to my great surprise and chagrin unmoved. Even Scott gave me little satisfaction in this direction, as little as my other favorite author, Captain Marryat; but another “ magnificent book” which I received on my birthday, “ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” reaped a rich harvest. Strangely enough, whether because of my father’s sym­ pathy with Uncle Tom and his antipathy for Legree, I did not for a mo­ ment compare him to the slave driver. When Enih had rejected me, I felt I had to look for love elsewhere. I remembered the European girls I had known at school in Soekaboemi; I hesitated between a girl who was a few years older than I was, who was skinny but who had magnificent black curls as some of the heroines of Walter Scott or another who was about my age and with whom I had played hide-and-seek in my father’s club. I chose the latter as the better possibility because she was about my age and her name was Polly. I told Enih about her and tried to convince myself, by pronouncing her name with a great deal of emotion when I was alone. But two kutjiahs (profes­ sional actors) who came to live in Balekampang, and each of whom had a wife, offered me greater reality: I again fell in love, this time in deep secret, with a living woman, starting with one whom I thought better looking at first, but her chewing of betelnut repulsed me: then with the other, who attracted me on account of her white and unfiled teeth. With the native boys I played tag, but I always identified knights’ tales with the names we called each other—Ivanhoe, Kenneth and Richard, 124 CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON something the native boys considered rather odd; later as I was reading a book about lion hunters I wanted to change the names and wanted them to call me Marandon, but they protested, because they found the old names easier and had become used to them. In reality their names were Entjih, Hatim, Sanoeb, Ahim, etc. Ahim was a fleet footed, dark boy, who was on a footing of greater equality with me than the others. His father had given him instruction in pentjak, which was a mixture of fighting and dancing; one day I proposed to him to try his skill on me. At first he refused discreetly, but I forced him and took hold of him. Within five minutes perhaps he threw me down twenty-one times on the sand, but once I half pulled him along. Every time I fell, all the other children, boys and girls, would jump up and down and about. Finally I was dead tired and bathed in perspiration, but more surprised than humiliated; I never lost the idea that all would change when we fought seriously and that then I would beat him instead of only pulling at him. But my per­ sonal prestige had suffered with the others, I was now only their superior as the son of a blanda. Later, when Ahim had gone, Entjih told me maliciously that he had said I was a real blanda, because all the time I had smelled like an andjing basah (wet dog). The father of this Ahim was called Pa Sahim and was probably crazy. Once three coolies ran away but were caught by Isnan on horseback and brought back. They sat on their haunches in our yard, all three next to each other; my father scolded them and afterwards beat them up sepa­ rately: the first two, who did not resist, each received a few blows and nothing more, but the third, who jumped up, was beaten in a manner that looked rather like a wrestling match. I had seen all this ever since I was a baby, but now that I saw my father on top of a native who had lost his headcloth and was pushed against the ground, I experienced a sexual manifestation to which I did not pay any attention. My feeling at the same time seemed to come from fear and exaltation. While my father was beating the third, Pa Sahim came running out of his house and sud­ denly gave one of the two other coolies, who were again sitting on their haunches, a blow in his neck from behind. My father immediately let go of his victim and shouted to Pa Sahim that he must go away; the man stood facing him, strong and thickset, and looked with his red eyes into my father’s. I thought later on that the scene might have ended in a mur­ der; if my father had not controlled the other with his greater will power, if the other had pulled out a knife, my mother and I might have seen him murdered in a few seconds by the four natives; it is not impossible that they might have thrown themselves upon us afterwards—such things have happened in just this way. But the men left, and the three beaten ones followed him; my father went to lie down on a couch where my THE LAND OF ORIGIN 125 mother brought him some tea, uttering soothing words. What would I have done, I then thought, if I had seen my father being murdered? I think that I would have immediately run away, through the kampung, straight to the spot of the Tjiletoeh, to hide away with Kiping and the Ba­ tavian sailors. Or would I have defended my mother? Another time, when Ahim did not want to play with me, I went to call for him at his home. He was busy eating, facing his father and with his back towards the door; half angry, but partly too in joke, I pulled him from the bale to the floor, before he had seen me. He refused to come along, and his father began to roar as I had never heard a native do before; I left in order to tell my father. While I crossed the bridge over the Tjikanteh, because the coolies’ habitations were on the other side, I could still hear the man plainly shout: “ Go ahead! I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid!” When I had come back to our own house and had told my parents the story, I was called down, but for a moment my father seemed inclined to go towards the upheaval which could be heard in our house also. Perhaps he might also have been murdered that time. But my moth­ er kept him back with the argument that the man must be insane, that one could see it in his eyes. Some days later he was sent away and thus I lost my comrade Ahim Foo. In spite of these things, my father’s behavior towards the natives did not please me at all: I experienced it like fate, but I shivered as soon as something of the kind reoccurred. My mother sometimes warned me that I ought to go away, that one would surely get a beating again. My friend Moenta, Don Juan that he was, was given a beating too, after which he ran away; this caused me to hate my father anew. Once he beat an already aged, rather fat man from the village, who fetched our mail from Pelaboean with the winged prau. Probably the man deserved it, because he had probably opened a registered letter to see whether there was any money in it, but that afternoon I seethed with pity and indignation. Like a reflex movement I ran back to my room and broke open the penny bank wherein my mother sometimes put a dime: the result was about one guilder. I knew for sure that my mother would not scold me, but I was mortally afraid that my father would see me: bending myself up double behind the djarak hedge I had to run hard to catch up with the man. He was stumbling along, busy putting on his sarong and fastening his head- cloth. When I had caught up with him—it was already between the two hedges in the kampung—I hastily gave him the money and then slunk back with beating heart along the shrubs that were to hide me. I buried this “ noble deed” as well as my feelings of vengeance, almost like unrea­ soned impulses and nothing else. I had again experienced such an im­ pulse ten years later when I was a young reporter on the Nieuwsbode at 126 CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON the Kali Besar at Batavia: on a suffocatingly hot day, as I was waiting for a street car to take me home, a native came to stand in front of me with an unpainted table which he offered me for sale. I asked him whether he perhaps thought I could take the thing along in the street car; he looked at me beseechingly and said in an almost toneless voice: “ For one guilder, sir, for whatever you think it is worth” —and with a gesture in­ dicating his mouth: “ I am so hungry.” There was famine at that time in the Buitenzorg region. I had hardly half a guilder in my pocket and the same reflex motion occurred; I shouted at him to wait and ran as fast as I could over the bridge of the Kali Besar, back to my paper, because I might still find the chief copyreader. I found him there and asked him for a guilder; then I ran back and found the native, who was waiting. All that time I had one fear: that he would have left because he did not trust me. When I sat in the street car, which luckily was just passing by, I felt myself unutterably happy and yet I was astonished at myself. Later on, like all Indian boys, I beat the natives myself; especially the sado coachmen whose backs I have often poked with my fist so that they might drive on when they refused. But all this came from a misunder­ stood conception of sportsmanlike behavior, following the example of others, without much conviction, and once even, after I had boxed a native’s ear and sent the man away without another word, with a strong feeling of humiliation and pity, furious with myself because I only had one urge: to find the man again and apologize to him. On the contrary, at Tjitlengka, when I was seventeen, I fought with the house boy Piin who refused to obey me while my parents were away. He was unusually tall for a native and had manifested a sneering laziness towards me for a period of weeks; I now jumped up from the table where I was eating and followed him into the hall to give him a slap; he turned around and seized me and we rolled over each other in the hall until we bumped into the wall. I put a scissor-hold on him exactly as I had seen my father do, his headcloth came off, and I would have been able to beat him because he had suddenly ceased defending himself. But I did not do so; I pushed his head against the wall, got up, smiled and let him get up; because I had not given him a beating I went with a pleasant feeling back to the table again. He continued serving me, and when my parents came back home neither he nor I spoke about what had happened. Since that time he flew to execute my orders and paid all kinds of attention to my wants. One day I cut my ankle to the bone with a sort of short saber and limped in­ side with my slipper dripping with blood and he ran towards me, his face ash grey, to support me. It was a short saber attached to a stick; I had just purchased the weapon and he had sharpened it to a keen edge for me, which was perhaps the reason, but that sort of pang of conscience THE LAND OF ORIGIN 127 seemed too subtle for me in a native. What a magnificent subject for the Freudians, the “ link” between master and servant after the beating. I should have liked to have seen my father’s face if I had asked him for his thoughts upon feelings of this sort. I shall come back to the subject of Pa Sahim and Balekambang. The man was perhaps not insane, but certainly cruel. One day Isnan shot a binjawak (small alligator) in the Tjinkanteh. It was still alive when brought ashore. Pa Sahim put his hunting knife between the jaws and split it apart like a piece of firewood uttering a sonorous “ Ha!” at every new blow, and with every new blow the mouth of the animal continued to open, though it had already been split open to its stomach. That sort of thing seems amusing to the natives. When Otto came to us in Bale­ kambang he shot a lutung (black monkey) for his collection; the animal was brought home while it was still alive. Moenta came to me and said: “Go and look at the lutung your brother has shot, a lutung is like a human being, when he is in pain, he cries.” I went to look at the animal, which was lying down; it moaned like a human being and had indeed tears in the remarkably human eyes. I became very upset and went with tears in my eyes to my mother, asking whether the animal might be kept alive. She was afraid not; moreover, Otto wanted the skin for his collec­ tion. During the night the moaning body was brought to the adjoining buildings. The next day, as soon as I had gotten up, I went there; the animal was still alive, I scratched its head cautiously, I gave it my hand, which it clutched anxiously. Isnan appeared in order to skin it. I pro­ tested, saying that perhaps it could be kept alive.—Nothing doing, he said; he had received orders to skin it, and he let it be taken away. I went everywhere to find my mother, but she had gone for a walk with Otto and my father. When they came back the lutung had been skinned. All day long I did not speak to them; I would have despised myself if I had spoken to such people. But the most painful thing was told me by my playmates: the lutung had been skinned alive; when he was without skin, he was still moaning, and only then, said either Enih or Entjih, their father the stable boy had cracked his skull with his hunting knife. I am trying to discover the old pain while I am writing this; but there is nothing . . . it is past or the action of writing it down has replaced it. Years later I thought back upon these things and found again the same intensity within me the feelings of pity and hatred; I have sometimes dug up the story for my mother in order to punish her because she did not prevent it. The lutung hide hung for less than a year in Otto’s collection; he himself was sorry that he had shot the animal, but perhaps only because he had not hit it in a better spot. This incident drew me away from Isnan. I really did fight at Balekam- 128 CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON bang with two adult servants when I was a child, namely with Isnan and Pieng, the cook. Pieng was perhaps merely hysterical; she gave vent to this in abundant shrieking when I had done something wrong to her daughter, my playmate Amsah. This wrong was never of a serious na­ ture: she received a ball against her foot as we were playing nine-pins or I would say that she looked a sight (she had then been chewing betelnut, something I could not bear), having prettified herself for the benefit of one of the Batavian sailors, Normin. When my parents were at the fac­ tory at the time, Pieng came to bawl me out. I felt the urge to fly at her, though she was an old woman, but soon I succeeded in wounding her by words and that was much better: she would again escape into the kitchen, and there between her pots and pans she would shriek and in the mean time beat her breast and not quite but almost pull out her hair. I then opened the small door leading to the adjoining room, where Isnan was busy sharpening the knives, and said: “ Look at this foolish woman.” His facial expression remained indifferent, but in reality he enjoyed the spectacle. I do not know in the least any more all that I said, because my childish psychology may have taken a strange turn. Isnan said to me: “Allah, but you have a sharp tongue!” as if I were battling him. It was a good thing that I was able to use my tongue against this man whom I could not touch in any other way. He was the great animal destroyer in our house; he shot cats and dogs considered dangerous to the hen roost, and one day when he caught a dog in the chicken coop, he broke its back with a bamboo stick. The animal howled horribly; I heard it and ran up: there was a mix-up between the animal that lay howling but powerless in a corner on the ground, Isnan with his bamboo stick, and I who ran be­ tween Isnan’s legs, flew at him and pushed and pulled wherever I could, all this happening in the small enclosure full of chicken manure and feathers and with the door locked. That the dog did not bite both of us is a wonder. Isnan pushed me aside, almost knocked me down, as he fin­ ished the dog with his bamboo stick. I shouted: “ Wait, Isnan, when I am grown up I’ll treat you in the same way!” I hated him at that moment more than I ever hated Bapa Tjing. Those animal stories are in my memory the most moving episodes of the time we stayed in Balekambang. In the back yard was the chicken coop, so that the chickens were everywhere, even sometimes in the house; nowhere could one be absolutely sure that one would not step in some chicken manure. But they furnished meat and eggs, the only variation from fish, because the cattle were seldom slaughtered here. The rare times we were given buffalo meat we had to be very careful to find out whether or not the buffalo had perhaps been sick. We had buffaloes our­ selves; they were common grey ones with a few albinos mixed in, on THE LAND OF ORIGIN 129 whom I preferred to ride after my little friend Sanoeb had taught me how to climb onto them. My mother’s favorite cow, Sajati, had no horns and had pushed me into the mud of the river, but the buffaloes with their large thick horns went on dumbly and placidly with Sanoeb and me on their backs. At home I had a chick that ran around peeping, even over my books, but it was one day stepped on by a mysterious stranger; with unutterable sorrow I buried it in the garden next to the place where they weighed the grass. One day my little friend Hatim gave me a perkutut that had been reared in the coolies’ house of his parents; I proudly put it in a cage and asked Amsah to feed it at the same time as my parents’ birds, but a week later it had perished from hunger because Amsah had forgotten about it. It was at the time when my father had overwhelmed me with work so that I had no longer paid any attention to it; when I saw it dying and my mother discovered the reason, I was furious with Amsah but also with myself. The fact that the animal had grown up in Hatim’s poor surroundings, that he had fed it from his mouth, and that it had to die in this manner in our well-to-do house, gave it the melancholy quality of a fairy tale, but this aesthetic consideration sharpened my pain instead of lessening it. I could have let Hatim beat me if he had consented to do so. But he took it quietly; he had a stupid face with large protruding teeth. After the death of the chick my mother gave me a large yellow rooster who would not have been in any danger of being trampled to death. He was only mine in name, because that is the only way I could claim him, only rarely could I carry him around for a moment. But from this rooster I derived nothing but pleasure: at one time Otto had sent my mother half a dozen fighting cocks, all with shaven combs, and mine, who still possessed his comb, chased them all away. I had vague plans for declaring him a fighting cock and winning bets with him, and the kutjiahs had even made me the proposition, but this right away showed that he was only mine in name. The one that really belonged to me, though in name he was my father’s, was the fox terrier Loulou. He was, on account of his race and color in the midst of a menagerie, a real white man’s dog, domineering, energetic and unafraid. As his mate Lili had died, he lived in our yard with his daughters, which did not prevent him from exercising his droit de seigneur in the kampung among the more common canine breed. He fought ceaselessly and was always the winner; the villagers respected him because he was an Ardjuna among dogs. Sometimes, however, he came home with damaged skin, once in the middle of his forehead; it was so neat, so deep and so round a hole, that I could not understand that it had not run into his brain. My mother dressed his wound and nursed him with kojupetih and iodine just as she did with the wounds of the natives. 130 CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON

When we played tag, Loulou was always present: though he obeyed my father implicitly, he would go around in circles when my father and I whistled for him at the same time and would end up by coming to me, though with a shrinking back in fear of my father. My father would sometimes beat him with the whip; not I, I wrestled with him, pulled his ears and would lift him high and then drop him to the ground, but it was all in fun. A childish cruelty towards animals did exist in me, but it did not go very far; I teased the animal in order to pity it afterwards. We also had many cats, almost every one of them tri-colored, whom I took to bed with me in turn. My way of teasing cats consisted of throwing them soft­ ly against the rug that hung from the wall, so that they would fasten themselves to it with their claws high above the ground; they would hang there mewing pitifully and not daring to drop down, and as soon as they would risk it I would renew the game. When they tired out, I had the feel­ ing that now I could spoil them. I only remember this naive kind of sadism from the time we were in Balekambang, though later too I always took cats to bed with me. The fox terrior had a furious dislike of monkeys. A little past the cow stable was a pond covered densely with green, dark green, behind a cur­ tain of lianas with white flowers; when he came here Loulou would start to bark as he trembled all afternoon, because he smelled the monkeys behind it, whose presence we only noticed by the soft creaking and swinging of the branches. One afternoon I went to one of the coolies to look at a monkey just caught. The animal sat on a stick, making fear­ some little sounds like the chirping of a bird. I had forgotten Loulou, who stood behind me looking up at the stick while trembling; the small monkey saw him and clung to me for protection like a child, but with one jump Loulou caught it around the middle and dragged it along through the garden. It happened so fast that nobody realized it, but I quickly got a hold of Loulou, beat with my fists with all my might on his ribs and tried to pry his jaws apart. But he stood as if rooted to the floor, until he had become sure that he had bitten the monkey to death; then he dropped it disdainfully. It was dead; a little bit of blood ran out of its nostrils. I took the little corpse along, with Loulou suspended from his collar in my other arm, and when I came home I tied him, put the little monkey down on the floor in front of him and beat him mercilessly with the whip until he whimpered softly. Still afterwards I went in a desperate state to the beach: if I had wanted to balance my sorrow at the time by a deed, I should have hung Loulou. He died of hydrophobia. For a few days he had been wandering around grumbling and had become listless, and I had sometimes pulled his ears, taken him up and dropped him. He would go away then, some- THE LAND OF ORIGIN 131 what uncertain on his feet; my father noticed that he was not well and let him lie down in a cool spot on a chain; there he lived for two more days. I was not allowed to come near him, but my father went to look at him daily and patted his head. When he left, Loulou looked at him with glassy eyes. “ A harmless hydrophobia,” said my father; “ good dog, he did not even think about biting any of us.” I still ran a few more dangers from animals, not only danger from cockroaches and centipedes, at the thought of which Dutch women shiv­ er when they think of the Indies. Every day I saw cockroaches at Bale- kambang. Some snakes had even been slain in our yard. But one day when we were playing at hiding our handkerchiefs, I reached with my hand into an empty birdcage, when Enih suddenly gave a yell. Like a green arrow a bungka laut shot out from under the tin roof of the cage, a snake whose bite is mortal. Another time when the bridge over the Tjikanteh had collapsed, Entjih and I rowed people across in a small prau. As we came back, we were attacked by wasps at precisely the spot where there was a crocodile kedung. We beat around us with our pad­ dles, but the wasps attacked us so furiously that our little vessel was upset and we lay in the dark water above the kedung. Otto had already taught me to swim; I was therefore not afraid of drowning, but more afraid that time than when the snake had shot out of the cage. Entjih and I swam to the shore, leaving the boat and the paddles. I thought of the woman Djassilem and already felt the crocodile’s teeth in my leg: afterwards I was often obsessed with the idea of what one would feel exactly if one were dragged along under water by a crocodile; henceforth I included the following in my evening prayer: Especially do not let me be killed by a crocodile. And then there was the glorious day when father came home with a tiger—but he had not shot it himself. The animal had been lured in the usual manner with a goat that had been half eaten; a lantern was hung at the spot, and my father and the Lurah preman (a freeman, ex-village head) sat in a tree until it would come. My father had taken along the newest rifle of his arsenal, a double-barreled gun, the Lurah preman his own old rifle, perhaps one of the first breechloaders that had been im­ ported to the Indies. When the tiger came hesitating into the circle of light, the native nudged my father; he twice released the catch and both his cartridges missed fire. The other, who had politely waited for his turn, then shot, and the tiger fell without further ado. He was skinned and this time I went to the prau shed to look at his skinned body. He looked strange but still like a tiger. The villagers came in groups, each to buy a bit of tiger meat; according to what Isnan said, not to eat but to use as medicine. The head through which the bullet had passed was boiled in 132 CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON a large kettle in order to be able to give my father a clean skull, and the water became a strong brew with large circles of fat floating on top. The skin was stretched along the back wall of the back verandah, smelling foul for months. The only time that my father and mother were away and left me in the care of Alima, I had the feeling of being king. I let the gamelan be brought in at night in the living room and Moenta had to give a wajang presentation for my benefit; I let Enih dance with flowers in her hair, and I, who later on never wanted to learn European dances, shamelessly danced along with my native friends. I almost emptied my father’s book box on the sofa and during the day I read until I got a bursting headache; Alima, Ma Oemih or somebody else had to massage it away. During the early morning I was called from my bed because a giant turtle, such as had never been seen here before, had been caught on the beach right in front of our house. I hurried there in my nightgown and on naked feet; the sun had hardly risen and it was cold on the beach and a large number of fishermen stood around the caught animal. It was really enormous, and a little bit beyond, it had laid a number of eggs which also seemed three times as large as the turtle eggs I had seen before. The natives spoke about dragging the animal to the village and butchering it there. At the moment I thought that this was what would happen, when a boy with a stick injured the animal’s eye. I then immediately ordered the rope to which it was tied to be cut. The turtle slowly crawled towards the surf and then went in a stately manner into the water. For a moment it disap­ peared in the foam, but when it had passed the surf it swam away from us in a straight line towards the center of the bay, and rather above than below the waves. Until it was far away one could see it lift its head, and the natives followed it with their eyes as if they were witnessing a sea ser­ pent swimming away. I had them bring the eggs into the house and I felt wonderful. In the afternoon one of the notables of the kampung came to shout at the gate that I never should have let the animal go, that he would have even given eight guilders for it. I must have been about eleven years old at that time, it was perhaps during the last half year of our stay in Sand Bay. I do not remember much about the last days there except the atmosphere. A young Euro­ pean came to live at the other side of the Tjiletoeh; he had a gramo­ phone, and we rowed over to listen to the music, which was much better than our symphonium. The waltz from Coppelia, Tesoro mio, Ro- dolphe’s song from La Boheme, remind me of this period. We sometimes rowed up the Tjiletoeh until we reached an old farmer Pa Sain, who had the reputation of being able to teluh (make people waste away through magic), which according to my father meant that he knew how to get rid THE LAND OF ORIGIN 133 of people by poison. He was a very small and skinny, beardless old man with smiling eyes. We had to get out of the boat and climb a steep wall, with steps dug out of the earth, which usually caused my mother great ef­ forts, but once in the garden one was transplanted into a paradise; one sat, walked or crouched under the leaves; one ate fruits and all kinds of tuberous plants: oebi, talles, ketella, as much as one could eat. It was the jungle in all its loveliness; his house stood in the midst of the greenery, fish nets, fishing rods and farm implements stuck out from everywhere, and everywhere the bamboo had been colored with betel stripes. When it became dark we went back, my parents were quiet, the oars creaked, the voice of Kiping at the rudder related a joke, and the sailors hummed a rowing chant. The setting sun on the broad Tjiletoeh, the shadows that fell quickly over the water and melted the lianas and rattan stalks on both shores with the foliage, the hollow, dry sound of the bird that was called tukang kaju (woodpecker), and my hand gliding through the water, feebly gives me, as I think back to it, the atmosphere of those happy days when I was free of school books. We also went to the sero, a kind of labyrinth for fish, planted in the sea, with successive rooms out of which the fish did not dare escape because the openings through which they swam would end in a point in their direction. My mother always consid­ ered this way of catching fish a pleasure; for me a slight touch of seasick­ ness spoiled the fun. When my father gave up the work in the factory and specialized in the renting of plots in the interior, we made journeys to other regions and we again slept in native huts. My mother and I in sedan chairs, my father, Isnan and some village head on horseback, we would go through the woods, sometimes over swinging bamboo bridges; and at night we slept on mattresses on the floor, with my mother’s sarongs put up by herself like mosquito curtains around us. I would have to write for pages and pages in order properly to picture these journeys, the enjoyment of hav­ ing a breakfast consisting of weak coffee prepared in the native fashion and turtle eggs that had to be torn apart like parchment bags, the joy of entering a “ small town” hardly as large as Pelaboean Ratoe, with a pa- sanggrahan, where unexpectedly we would find a stack of torn European magazines, and a market where one might buy all sorts of baubles like great treasures, such as red lacquered Japanese boxes and for Alima a kebaja pin with glass instead of diamonds. In all this I have forgotten to mention my foster-sister Sylvia. Because they had no daughter my parents participated in the custom of many In­ donesian families of adopting an anak mas (literally “ golden child,” foster-child). One day my mother came home with a little girl that had been given 134 CHARLES EDGAR DU PERRON her by a coolie, a child perhaps a year old, with a pretty round face and large dark eyes. It was called Bettina, after the operetta La Mascotte, be­ cause it had to be a mascot itself; my father played with it even more than my mother, but after a fortnight the parents came to fetch it back, the mother was continually crying for it and she was not able to separate her­ self from it. My parents sadly gave it back and let it be known in the kampungs that they would like to adopt a child. From a village high above the Tjikanteh a woman came with a child nine months old, still carried in her slendang, with closed eyes, a flat face and feverish cheeks. It had, moreover, a wound in its forehead, because when its mother had gone into the rice field she had put it down somewhere on a rice block, and one day it had fallen from it. The child was less attractive than the one we had given back, but it was pathetic because of its situation: the mother was already an older woman, the father, a young man, was not married to her and had not been willing to recognize it. It came to live with us and in a few days my mother had cured it, the fever had disap­ peared, the wound was healed, only its flat features remained un­ changed. The name given this child was no less classical, in the anak mas tradition, it was called Sylvia. I was about nine when it came, and it must have been almost three when we took it along from Sand Bay; still I do not remember anything about its first years but that it called me “pappy.” Neither do I remember how or when precisely we left; my parents and I had recently suffered from malaria, nevertheless it was their intention to return as soon as possible. But in Batavia itself my father found buyers for his renting plots; with the money he earned from this he had a small villa built on the land around Gedong Lami. We could live on the rents; the adventure of Balekambang had cost much energy and good humor but the financial losses suffered were thus made good. The factory there was neglected, and one day it burned down and the house where we had lived fell apart; nothing remained but the coconut trees grown wild. Some years later we went back for a visit: everything had changed, even the journey was different, because we went from Soekaboemi to Pela- boean in a car and from Pelaboean to Balekambang in a motor boat. Enih was married to a kuntjiah, much older than she, and had gone away with him; the villagers called me djuragan anom (young gentleman) in­ stead of the familiar neng of before. I remember no more about this visit than that I stood alone under a large tree—the famous fig tree and looked towards Tjimarindjoeng, listening for sounds. There I had walked on bare feet, hidden behind the shrubs when we played Richard the Lion- hearted and Ivanhoe. When we were afterwards in Europe, I thought back sometimes about this region as an ideal place to end a turbulent life; THE LAND OF ORIGIN 135 with just a few books, I imagined then, and making great friends of the villagers.

NOTE 1. Joost van den Vondel (1587-1679), a famous Dutch poet. However, this “ Prince of Poets” as he is sometimes called, shares his first name with the devil, also called “ Joost” by the Dutch. The expression “ Joost may know” refers to the devil, not to the poet as the governess mistakenly assumes. [Ed.] 8 . ELISABETH (BEB) DE WILLIGEN-VUYK

Introduction Beb Vuyk was twenty-four and had published some successful stories in Holland, when she decided to go to the Indies. Although this was her first encounter with the archipelago, she had been driven to make the long journey by the same quest for identity, the same urge to seek “ the land of origin” as du Perron, who had been born there. Though born in Holland, Beb Vuyk had inherited the somewhat darker features of her Madurese grandmother, and this tended to deepen her longing for a “ far but familiar fatherland.” 1 On the ship bound for the Indies she met her future husband; they settled on the island of Baru in “ the last house of the world,” 2 survived Japanese occupation and witnessed the ensuing struggle for independence. Her work contains a very strong autobiographical current and reflects the life in an Indonesia where increasing polarization had heightened the barrier between Dutch and Indonesians. This posed a particular dilemma for those Indisch who by virtue of race and cultural heritage could not make a choice between the two: “ The invasion of the Japanese and the capitulation afterwards drove us forcefully apart, we Dutchmen disap­ peared into concentration camps and also the Indonesians were in for terrible times. In 1945 the survivors would see each other again, at op­ posite sides of a demarcation line, which for us could not exist.” 3 Beb Vuyk’s stories show that the choice of allegiance is not made by the individual. Outsiders and outside forces decide where one belongs, frequently inflicting cruelty upon the individual. This cruelty creates a dilemma which Beb Vuyk tries to resolve by relating her experiences to ALL OUR YESTERDAYS 137 the reader. Fear of cruelty and the courage to face it also form the underlying motif in the following story.4

NOTES 1. Beb Vuyk’s collected works were published in 1972 by Querido in Amsterdam. “ Mijn Grootmoeders” (My Grandmothers), pp. 421-433, and “ De vervulling en de terugkeer” (Realization and Return), pp. 434-445, contain some of the biographical data related in this foreword. This particular quotation is taken from “ Mijn Grootmoeders.” 2. Title of one of her autobiographical narratives, which occurs in her collected works, pp. 157-246. From “ De vervulling en de terugkeer,” p. 443. “ All Our Yesterdays” appeared in English translation in The Literary Review, 5 (1961-62), pp. 222-226. Translated by Estelle Debrot. Reprinted with permis­ sion. All Our Yesterdays

During that month it rained every day, but before evening fell it was dry again. Then the damp garden smelled of leaves and grass. The hospital was a rebuilt country house, surrounded by a park-like garden, where a famous painter had lived a hundred years ago in royal splendor. In spite of all the changes made by the scores of alterations for different pur­ poses, it had retained much of the old in its sphere, a composure which is not of today and a naive rusticity. It lay just outside the centrum on a busy highway, an enclave of rest in the town and in time. Groves were cleared away and ponds were filled up, but the old driveway of royal palms had been spared, was asphalted, and led from the modern entrance building to the nurses’ quarters, the former main building, bombastically ugly and yet with a gesture of grandeur. Though small courts had been formed by additions to the side wings, adequate lawns remained, partly overshadowed by trees, to preserve a feeling of space, of coolness and rusticity. Deer grazed there in the afternoons under tall trees. She always lay alone in this white room. During the day the shutters re­ mained closed, to open an hour before sundown, when the light had lost its glare and a grey shadow rose on the white of the walls, not cast and not directed, as if coming from inside. There are places where temporary things become lasting. From the tandem, through the dark tunnel of un­ consciousness, she had been flung in this place, no longer in life and not yet in death. At night the door to the wide rear gallery stood open. From the dark room she could see into the gallery where some twenty meters from her bed, in the middle, a low-hanging lamp spread a soft yellow cir­ cle over the table of the night nurses. ALL OUR YESTERDAYS 139 One night she had dreamed aloud, but when she wakened she could not remember what the dream was about. The night nurse was standing over her bed offering her something to drink. “Are you afraid?” she asked. “ There is no reason to be, everything is going to be all right. You have only to lie flat in the dark a few weeks longer.” “No, no, I am not afraid,” she said hastily and was surprised about the feeling of guilt that she recognized from her youth, when she had fibbed without being caught “Shall I give you something to make you sleep?” “ Oh, no,” she answered almost offended and closed her eyes. “ Thank you just the same, I’ll fall asleep again.” But she did not go to sleep again. The nurse finished her rounds and sat down at the table under the lamp. She knitted for a while, went to help one of the patients in another room, and then put her knitting away and took up a newspaper.

The yellow light from a low-hanging lamp, under it a policeman sat reading the newspaper. She lay on a mat on the dirty floor and dreamed, screaming in the dream. She was sentenced and the judge was the Kem- paitai captain with the pale face and the immobile eyes of a reptile. She told her story with Ann and Chris sitting next to her, they knew her lies and would bear her out. Then Bennie was brought in. He did not wear a uniform any longer, but the old khaki shirt and trousers which he always had on when he went in the gardens. He looked calm and unsuspecting and greeted the judge unconstrainedly with a nod of his head. She had not been able to warn him, he was not taken prisoner together with them and had never been confronted with them. Now they had taken him from the prison camp and brought him here to testify. She thought with dismay, he does not know the story I made up, he will betray us. His evidence will show that we are lying. His face came nearer like a close-up in a film, a friendly, trustworthy face, the face of an honest and simple person. In his guilelessness he will betray us, she thought, he will tell the truth and his truth will be our death. Then she saw his face begin to decay. The eyes sank deeper, the cheeks fell away, the teeth became bare. The image fell backwards, she saw him from feet to head. His shirt was open, she could see his chest and how the flesh was already rotting, that the ribs were visible, that only a few shreds of dark flesh hung between the bars of the thorax. She screamed, she heard herself screaming. 140 )EB VUYK

Someone touched her hand and said: “Are you afraid, do /ou want something to drink?” The little policeman gave her the glass of water with trembliig hands. Two others stood behind him. “ You frightened us,” he said. “ Were you dreaming?” “ Yes, about the Kempaitai.” She could see their faces, she nodded to both and repeated “ About the Kempaitai.” “ Did they torture you?” asked the tallest one. “ Yes, with electricity, but it was not about that.” “ You must not frighten us,” said the small one earnestly. She sat up straight on her mat and looked in their faces and ncognized their fear. One of them squatted down next to her, took a little dox from his pocket and rubbed some salve on her forehead. “ What is it?” she asked. “Obat mat jam ." The other offered some aspirin and got moie water. “ Go to sleep again,” said the tall one and added comfortinjly as to a child, “ tomorrow you will not be interrogated.” She lay down again and closed her eyes. Then they spoke Jtvanese to one another; a little later she heard the door close. When she boked up again the little policeman sat at the table under the low lanp—like a nurse who is watching a patient, she had thought then.

She was taken to the Roentgen room for an examination on i stretcher that was wheeled along the gallery. It was still early, but the lght there outside her room was already unmercifully dazzling. Babus vere mop­ ping the long tiled gallery; nurses were moving swiftly from oie section to the other; convalescing patients, their faces still sunken fron illness, were walking with care in the garden. She closed her eyes and ctvered her face with her hands. “ That is better,” said the nurse, “ the light is too sharp for yoi.” She always made remarks that were intended to be friendly and were correct but which, for some reason or other, were not suited tothe situa­ tion. After this trip the Roentgen room was dim, cool and nercifully quiet. They left her lying on the stretcher because the doctor hid not yet arrived. She kept her eyes closed, especially when they gave herthe injec­ tion, and she remained for a time in a state between the border of con­ sciousness and moments of unconsciousness. Afterwards tie things around her became clearer again, though farther away anl slightly shifted. The doctor stood next to her, before she was aware tlat he had come in. “ She has already had the shot,” she heard the nurse saying “ but we did not know if we should shave off her hair or not.” ALL OUR YESTERDAYS 141 He laid his hand on her neck. His fingers were as cold as the blade of a sword. Deathly cold like a sword, she thought. There was one word that expressed it exactly, but she could no longer remember it. Now there was nothing left but to die with dignity. This was the last command, die with dignity. At the same time she knew that she did not have to die, not at this moment in any case. The strain of fear was insup­ portable, though she knew with certainty that she was not going to die. More direct and more urgent than the fear of death was the fear to be lacking in dignity, to go to pieces, deteriorate under the torture, to shrink from the pain, to give in to a complaint, to beg with indignity.

They had not closed her up in a cell, but in the gudang where the con­ fiscated goods were kept. One evening a woman in one of the cells began to scream. She hardly knew her, only that she was the wife of the former mayor. On the way to the water closet, she had to pass the woman’s cell, in the beginning a policeman always walked in back of her, later not, at least if there were no Japanese. Sometimes they exchanged a few words. The woman always stood in back of the observation hole, a white face, framed by tangled reddish hair that was completely shaved away on one side of her head. “They did that right away at the first interrogation,” the woman had whispered to her. In the afternoon the woman’s niece came to bring her food, the prisoners who were pending trial were al­ lowed to receive their food from outside. Sometimes her little son came along, a cute, fat little fellow of about four. One afternoon Pak Ateng, the oldest policeman, opened the cell door, the woman came out and opened her arms and the little boy ran to her. She had seen it all from the window in the gudang and she had thought of her own children. “ Who will take care of your little boys when we have beheaded you?” the Japanese captain had inquired a couple of days ago. It was nearly dark when she heard the screaming and she knew at once who it was. She had looked out of the window without seeing anything, her body rigid with the effort not to scream too. The inspector carried the woman out of the cell and laid her on a camp bed in the gudang and gave her a bromide. Then she wasn’t screaming any more, but lay cramped, sobbing out loud. Later a doctor came with a Japanese lieuten­ ant and they took her to the hospital. She was calm by then. She had sat on a bench and combed the long part of her hair over the shaved skull. “ Whoever is accused of a capital crime gets his head shaven,” the woman had said, “ but they cannot prove anything on me. I took the radio to pieces and threw the broken parts in the river. Every afternoon I walked past the river with my little boy.” “ You are sentenced to death,” screamed the Japanese captain at her. 142 BEB VUYK He threw the revolver on the table and pulled out his sword. “ The way you would like to be executed you may choose yourself, revolver or sword.” And when she did not answer, she was more sur­ prised than afraid at that moment, he had pulled her hair up in back and laid the blade of his sword on her neck. She felt the ice-cold of its thin edge penetrate her body. “Then the coldness of death penetrated his body.” It was a line from a poem, but she no longer knew of whom. It is not true, she thought, he is acting, that belongs to the nerve treatment. Nothing is going to happen. She was not afraid and could think clearly. It was the coldness of the metal that penetrated to her spine and was reverberated from there that made her tremble. He brushed the sword upwards along the back of her head and then pulled it away, holding it loosely in his hand. “ She has not been shaven yet,” he said to the lieutenant. “ I cannot cut off her head like that. Tomorrow. Then I’ll call for her and take her to Bogor. It is really too difficult here—in Bogor we have all the necessary arrangements for it.” He won’t come, she had thought. This is a case in the stage of inquiry, no judgment has been pronounced. But he did come, in a light-yellow, open car with red upholstery inside that smelled like new leather. She had to sit next to him. He himself drove. They rode in the direction of Bogor. Acting, she thought, acting. She was not trembling any longer, but sat straight up, her body rigid, with a fixed smile. After ten minutes he turned into a side street, then she knew that they were going back. He stopped near the guard. “ I’ll give you one more chance tomorrow. We will interrogate you and then you must tell the truth.” She stood next to the car and he put out his arm and laid his fingers be­ tween two cervical vertebrae. “ Watch out, here is where the cut comes,” he had said. The sun was shining, it was a warm day, but his fingers were as cold as his sword.

The doctor took his hand away. “ We do not have to shave her hair for this roentgen photo,” he said. “ Is everything ready, nurse? We will make the puncture first.” They had put her in a sitting position on the table. She had not sat up for days and it made her dizzy and still more unsure. The contours of things shifted, but the voices remained clear and close. She felt his fingers between the vertebrae, but lower, much lower than then. “ Bend further forward,” he had commanded and she obeyed. She heard the needle push the cartilage and it was as if she felt the pain only ALL OUR YESTERDAYS 143 much later that began to spread from the top of her skull, through thou­ sands of little cells, like water seeping through sinter. She sat still, gripped in an icy rigidity from head to hips. She knew where she was, she knew the doctor and the assistant; if she had been asked she could have said their names without faltering. She knew what was happening to her and why and yet her reactions were only indirectly determined because of that. “ Don’t you feel anything yet?” asked the doctor. “ No,” she answered vaguely. “ No,” repeated the doctor and it was the surprise in his voice that helped her gather the enormous exertion to bring up an answer against those other forces. “ Yes, now I do.” This time she spoke calmly and clearly. The clarity only lasted a moment, for when the pain began to stream through her in full strength, she repeated several times: “ It is terrible, terrible.” Stam­ mering, not about the pain, but about the indignity of this confession. 9. HERMAN J. FRIEDERICY

Introduction H. J. Friedericy (1900-1962) completed his studies in Indology (Indone­ sian Studies) with a dissertation entitled “ The Class System of the Buginese and the Makassars,” in which he demonstrated his understand­ ing of the intricacies of these societies. This same willingness to appre­ ciate and understand illuminates his later literary work. At the time of his dissertation, he had already served nine years with the Dutch colonial government (in Celebes) and after completing his studies, he returned to the Indies to serve in several capacities in Palembang and Batavia, until he was interned by the Japanese invaders. It was in prison that Friedericy began his first story “ De Reigerdans” (The Heron Dance) which is also his best known. The Indies remained the topic of subsequent stories and articles, as Friedericy continued to serve the Dutch government after 1945 as an advisor on Indonesian affairs in the United States, Germany, and England. De eerste etappe (1962) contains letters written by Friedericy while in Celebes. His stories were published in Vorsten, vissers en boeren (1957) and De Raadsman (1958). His novel Bontorio (1947) was later repub­ lished in a slightly changed format as De laatste generaal(\95S). In “ The Heron Dance,’’ Friedericy creates a scene for the readers’ eyes by his seemingly factual prose. The reader will “ see” the heron dance performed and is given a chronological account of what happened. Being a witness to the scene himself, he is also the jury, and in his total vision he will perceive the underlying motives.1 THE HERON DANCE 145

NOTE 1. The following translation of “ De Reigerdans” by N. C. Clegg appeared in The Literary Review, 5 (1961-62), pp. 227-231. Reprinted with permission. Bio­ graphical data in Robert Nieuwenhuys, Jaarboek van de Maatschappij der Nederlandse Letterkunde, 1969-1970. The Heron Dance

A few hundred yards from the shore of a small island in the sea of Flores the Astra lay at anchor. When the white moon had risen the captain had turned in, and now I was standing alone at the railing of the narrow little ship that had conveyed me to this silent eternity. In the cool light the sea lay motionless; and the island floated, neither near nor far, aimless, sleepy: a blue grey silhouette with a vague, pale glimmer of palmtops. The universe stood still, and I myself was barely holding on to life any­ more. It was a fulfillment, and though I still noticed a faint longing in my heart to set foot on the invisible beach of the island and never return, I did not really want to. I knew that nothing is sweeter than longing. From the island came the muted utterance of two drums. It was mid­ night, and so they were free to speak. They divided into four the days that surrounded big events such as birth, marriage and death, and con­ ducted their most tender and passionate exchanges, their deepest and darkest dialogues, when the world was silent. For whether they whis­ pered softly in a feverish, agitated rhythm; whether their voices swelled as they spoke; or whether they were making loud incantation—they were always brothers of the silence. Across the quiet, gleaming sea came floating the language of the two drums—dull, urgent, throbbing. They held themselves in check like fiery Makassar horses at the start of a journey. Gradually their voices became clearer, their words more distinct. They leapt over the alang-alang (sword-grass) like nimble-footed deer, and darted breathlessly away. They danced like the child-dancers at the Gowese Court, serious, cau­ tious, shy, their nervous little fingers clutching a fan. They swaggered THE HERON DANCE 147 like men, striding with out-turned toes, their moustaches twisted, the hilts of their kris glittering in the sun, boasting of their heroic exploits. They fought life and death battles: bawling their insults, beating their chests, attacking and stabbing the enemy till the blood came spurting from his wounds. They fell back panting, gasping, satisfied. And they themselves died, too. They grew old and weary, their tired voices dwell­ ing on the past; until they sighed softly, until they expired and fell silent—silent as the sea, the moon, the island, as my own heart.

After a long journey on horseback we came to a Buginese mountain village. Night had fallen when the prince and I, followed by our retinue, dismounted from our weary stallions in the front-yard of the headman’s high dark house. The strong familiar smell of leather and horse sweat hung about us. A pale glimmer spread from the East. The moon was rising—full, white and luminous. When we had greeted the old headman, and our horses had been led away, a silence fell. And in this silence I heard far in the distance the voices of the two drums. I had not been able to resist the power of the ganrang since I had heard the drums of Sailus that one night at sea. And so now, too, I asked the prince if he could send for a couple of good ganrang players. The head­ man said that we were in luck. A company of expert performers of the ancient heron dance, the pakondo-buleng, happened to be staying as guests in the village. They were people from the coast who would nor­ mally never visit the mountains. But a girl from Palatjari, the mountain village, had met a young fisherman in the capital of the country and fallen in love with him. And though in former years such a union would never have been countenanced, the wedding would take place in three days time. And at the feast the bridegroom’s relations, the famous pakondo-buleng of Barombong (the fishing village that was his home) were to dance the heron dance. The ganrang players of this company, perhaps the best in the land, had come along too. Would we like to see the performance? About an hour later the company came to pay their respects. Wrapped in our blankets, the prince and I were sitting on a mat in front of the headman’s house. Before us lay the yard, surrounded by high, motion­ less palms. Part of it was suffused with white moonlight, part was lit by a big woodfire on which our retinue were roasting venison, chatting busily away. The leader of the company, who was also their chief drummer, greeted us and then sat down in front of his younger partner on a rattan mat. He was getting on in years; across his wrinkled brow fell a few locks of grey hair which had escaped from the scarf he was wearing, Buginese fashion, 148 H. J. FRIEDERICY tied carelessly round his head. The two ganrang players took the oblong wooden drums onto their knees and remained sitting in the same posi­ tion, heads bowed, the left hand resting against one drumskin, while in the right hand the little curved stick of ebony seemed to be waiting to give the other drumskin the series of cracking beats which starts off each per­ formance. The drums were asleep, their flanks black brown from the fumes of the offerings made by their masters. They moved as the drum­ mers breathed. In the moonlight their tight-stretched goatskin looked as white as old Chinese pottery. The ganrang players were silently waiting. On our mat the prince moved a little closer and said softly: “ I must say I’m amazed that they are going through with this wedding. These fisher- folk always marry exclusively among themselves. The elder ganrang player, who is traditionally a man of influence in Barombong, has op­ posed it tooth and nail, so the village headman tells me. But now he has come along after all.” The cracking beats sounded, and sped away to the hills. The drums had awakened. The old man took the lead, and was followed by the one sitting behind him—probably a son whom he himself had initiated in the sacred ganrang play. Their faces were tight-shut, their eyes closed. Only their hands had a passionate life of their own. It was as if they belonged to the drums, as if the strong fingers derived their life from the drums. I could see the left hands best. They tapped with fingers and palm, they frolicked, they caressed shyly, they hammered and pounded. And after the drums had loudly commanded our attention, and had begun to speak more lightly and carelessly, a gentle murmur of excitement ran through the rows of villagers who had formed a wide circle around the drums and ourselves. The heron had come floating in. The dancer held his arms spread wide like wings. His shoulders were covered by a narrow pale blue shawl, the tips of which were clutched be­ tween the fingers of his outstretched hands. A second pale blue shawl completely enveloped his head and was kept in shape by a few bamboo sticks on the inside. Illuminated by moon and fire in turn, it created an amazing illusion of the head of a big bird. Borne on the voices of the two drums, the heron floated majestically above the green land. All was quiet. An occasional stately wingbeat, an occasional oscillation quickly corrected by a twist of the flight-feathers, and an occasional peering downward for the gleam of a small fish ruf­ fling the smooth surface of the flooded rice fields. In an undertone the drums spoke of sailing clouds; of dark green, slumbering villages; of brown, scorched mountain slopes. Then suddenly they became uneasy. Something unknown was approaching. Their voices grew louder. They sounded excited, alarmed. Rapidly beating its wings, the heron looked in all directions. It was the huntsman, the lame hunts- THE HERON DANCE 149 man for whom the village children in the front row apprehensively shuf­ fled aside. The drums encircled both huntsman and bird with their voices. Bird and huntsman were driven on by the two ganrang. With his leg dragging, all that the huntsman could do was to sneak close, limping along on the dull, compelling beat which sent him to his destination. And all that the heron could do was to escape, to return yet again to the danger, floating down in wide circles, alighting. And the huntsman was not allowed to see the bird. His limp grew worse with his growing fatigue. He had to peer about him with unseeing eyes. I had watched the performance many times and knew how it would end. The huntsman would finally kill the heron. He would hobble trium­ phantly to his prey, and discover to his horror that the heron was his own son. For a moment the drums held their breath. The men by the fire had fallen silent. The moon stood behind the palmtops as if behind a delicate wrought-iron grating. The children, who had laughed at the lame hunts­ man, now looked anxious. The huntsman had seen the bird, and the bird did not see the huntsman. A cracking beat, like a shot, sounded from one of the drumskins. The heron struggled to rise on its wings. A few despon­ dent wingbeats hardly moved him. The bird’s head, lifted high, turned helplessly from left to right; its great beak half open, the breath coming with difficulty. The wings hung limp. A second shot. The unwieldy bird made one last heartbreaking attempt to rise up. But the drums were almost dumb. They hardly breathed. And the heron, tired, tired, sank down in rest. It stretched itself, shuddered, was dead. The crippled huntsman jumped towards it. He kneeled down by the lifeless bird, bent over the corpse, and burst out in loud lamentation. “ It is my son,” he wailed. “ My son!” The drums were silent. The performance was over. I was thinking of going inside, for a thin wind had started to sweep across the mountains. As I got up, pulling my blanket around me, I heard the prince ask in a loud voice: “ Is he really dead?” Quickly looking up, I saw a small group of men clumsily lifting the body of the heron dancer, and almost at once it struck me that while the second ganrang player was tying his drum on to his back, the old one re­ mained seated as if turned to stone: his face old as the ages; his eyes closed; the drum on his knees; the thin hands resting exhausted on the flanks of the ganrang. The young dancer was dead. When he was carried on a stretcher to the house of his host, the prince said: “ He was the bridegroom.” We climbed the stairs of the headman’s house. The moon stood high in the sky. A thought stirred in me. At last I asked: “And the huntsman?” “Yes,” said the prince slowly, “ that’s his father.” 10. ALBERT ALBERTS

Introduction Alberts (1911-) began to write after his return from Indonesia in 1946, where he had spent seven years. As Rob Nieuwenhuys repeatedly points out in his Oost-Indische Spiegel (1972), Dutch authors often make their literary debut after their return from Indonesia, as though they feel the need to relate their experiences, “ to explain” as Alberts puts it himself. After his studies in Indology and a dissertation on the relationship be­ tween Thorbecke and Baud (Utrecht, 1939), Alberts was appointed ad­ junct controller on the island of Madura near Java. He spent the years 1942-1945 in internment camps on Java, and, after liberation, served with the military until 1946. The following story reflects the position of one whose race and na­ tional background have forced him into a position he does not particu­ larly cherish. However, the choice has been made for him and the indi­ vidual can only play his assigned role. The polarization which divides humans along national and ethnic lines is evident: “ Only in Holland, especially through the stories of others you realized that you had experi­ enced a tremendously separated society. I am sorry to admit that I had never perceived this while I was there.” 1 As in the case of Beb Vuyk, there is a strong autobiographical element in Alberts’ stories. Although in reality Alberts did not fire the fatal shot described in “ The Chase,” he did take part in a similar expedition and the hunted rebel leader shows characteristics reminiscent of persons Alberts encountered during his Indonesian stay.2 THE CHASE 151

NOTES

1 . Remarks by Alberts appeared in an interview published in De Gids (January, 1964), pp. 29-39. 2. “ The Chase” was published in Delta (Autumn, 1960), pp. 70-87. Reprinted with permission. The Chase

Captain Florines was a rebel. Why, he did not even know himself, per­ haps. I, who as a civil servant was on the side of the government, did not know in any case. At least not in the beginning. Towards the end of the chase, when I could hardly tell him, myself, and the boar apart, I believe I understood why Florines had lived as he did and was bound to die as he did. Or again, perhaps not. I don’t know. The form Florines gave to his rebelliousness looked like the kind that is quite usual in our district. I remember very well that the first I heard of it was on a Monday morning and that I felt like saying—and perhaps I did say: Damn, another annoying idiot who has gone crazy. For they were always crazy, the rebels, and not just slightly. They thought of them­ selves as little messiahs, and their Kingdom Comes were usually limited to a very specific region, where the inhabitants would not be obliged to pay taxes any longer. They gathered a number of disciples around them, often put on white clothes, and, finally, they fought to the death. They always fought to the death. There was never a happy ending to their rebellions. Ample reason to make a person swear when he hears, on a Monday morning, that a rebellion has broken out in his district. Further news about what had happened came in delayed and incom­ plete. First rumours that two villages had been burnt to the ground. I simply refused to believe it. Rebels in the category of little messiahs never burnt villages down. They never burn down villages, I said to my clerk. No, said my clerk, but he said it hesitantly. At two o’clock my chief telephoned me from headquarters and asked THE CHASE 153 me why the deuce I had not done anything, that two villages had been burnt to the ground. I answered that I was waiting for further reports, and as to the burning of those villages, it was a lot of humbug, they never did such things. You know that, I said, subtly alluding to his long and wide experience, which was a point of particular pride to him. Those two villages are still standing there just as they were yesterday and the day before, I added. So he let himself be persuaded not to speak about burning villages any more. But you’ll have to go there, he said. You’ll have to restore order there today. The man was quite right. Order had to be restored, and I would have to do it, and I could only do it by going there. But when I hung up the receiver I saw that it was still two o’clock, which on other days meant that it was time for me to go home, to eat, to bathe, to go to sleep. And I began to curse myself for my slackness in the morning. If I had only gone immediately, then perhaps I would already have him behind lock and key by now, that Captain Florines. Well, I’ll be . . . I suddenly said to myself, Captain Florines? That’s Florines, of course. How in God’s name is it possible? Florines, the cocky little hunter, the factotum of other, wealthier hunters. Florines, who shot wild boars and sold the dead beasts to the butchers; who, for money and big words, organized hunting parties. And—if you want to believe evil tongues—other parties, too, at night, in his house, which lay somewhat in the mountains. About the latter, one of the guests seems to have let something out, a story that still quivered with pleasure. But how in the name of heaven had this Florines, a mixture of servility, free hunter, and souteneur, become a rebel? And Captain Florines, too. W’hy was he suddenly called captain? I called my clerk. My clerk, who, whatever was happening or would happen, could remain at home. Who never was obliged to go out, no matter what time of day or night, to catch rebels or shoot them. You can just as well go home at two o’clock, I said to my clerk. I said this at a quarter past two, and the man had already remained overtime at the office of his own free will, thinking he could still do something for me; but for me at that moment all of life’s joy consisted in going home at two o’clock, and now that blasted Florines had become a rebel and I had to go and see about it, my chief said. Why Captain Florines? Why does Florines call himself captain? I asked my clerk. He is really a pensionary, said my clerk. That can’t be, I said. When was he put on a pension? At least ten years ago, said my clerk. It came out in the end that Florines had been an officer in one of the 154 ALBERT ALBERTS three corps in this region which for ages had been formed of volunteers from the mountains. But before he was even forty he was dismissed for extreme laziness and incompetence, and since then he had been paid a sort of gratuity. All right. Captain Florines, then. But at once something frightful entered my mind. Have any soldiers deserted? I asked. My clerk knew nothing about that, nor did anyone else, and only then did it dawn on me fully that I had indeed very few so-called further facts at my disposal and that it would probably be better to wait and see what afternoon brought. Then I thought with a second shock: it really could be true, about those villages. I had rejected the story as nonsense at a moment when I had not yet realized that Captain Florines was that particular Florines. But now I knew it, things looked quite different. Suddenly I was not at all so sure about my villages. I went up to the map that hung on my office wall. It showed the two villages, which might still have been burnt after all, between thirty and forty miles from my station. Between thirty and forty miles. I looked at the clock and began counting on my fingers. I would need half an hour to line up a platoon of police and have them ready to march. That would be three o’clock, then. Get under way at a quarter past. For we would have to go with two lorries, and you could bet your life that at least one of them would refuse to start, so that after ten minutes of exhausting groan­ ing and grinding from the starter they would have to crank. All right. We would leave at a quarter past three. Then we would not arrive at the first village much before five, but that would be soon enough. For one of two things had happened: the village had been burnt, and then there would be enough to do to make it unnecessary to think about going on to the sec­ ond village. Or the village had not been burnt, and then the second village would also be undamaged. In that case we could calmly gather some information on the spot. In the evening I would telephone a de­ tailed report to my chief, and tomorrow we would finish the affair. When I was that far, I began to regret my lost afternoon’s rest less and less. You might as well go home now, I said to my clerk. But first I would like to send for something to eat for you, he said. A good man. I nodded as enthusiastically as possible. Soon twenty-six strong fellows, all with carbines over their shoulders and revolvers in their holsters, would line up in front of my office, oh yes, and sabres at their sides. They would click their heels together, and their commandant would report to me. By Jove, I had completely forgotten to notify the commandant. THE CHASE 155 I telephoned the commandant and explained the case to him. In the meantime my clerk came in with a man who carried my meal, most cere­ moniously, on a tray. When I had finished telephoning, I sat down at my desk, which I used for a table. I have seldom eaten with so much relish. I heard the lorries drive up in front of my office while I sat meticulous­ ly peeling an apple, and a little later the commandant pushed my office door open. He was a large, heavy man, the commandant, with a fat, red face. He remained standing at the open door and informed me that his men were in attendance, really, that is what he said. My men are in atten­ dance. Still chewing, I walked to the hat tree for my cap. Aren’t you taking a weapon with you? asked the fat man. Naturally, really annoying, and where had I left the thing, that pistol; in my desk drawer, and without bullets of course. There was a box of cartridges with it. I stuffed the whole lot into my trousers pocket. A piece of apple? I said to the commandant. Well, if it isn’t depriving you. Really, that is what he said. Everything was all right, everything was fine. When I went outside, they all clicked their heels together. They had left the lorry motors running, ha ha, clever boys, clever fellows. They had to stand in the lorries, holding on to one another and to the folded up sides and back. At first I wanted to get in and stand, too, but I saw the commandant go and sit next to the chauf­ feur in the other lorry, and I did not want to embarrass him. We were already on the main road before a quarter past three. It might be over with quicker than we thought. It was lovely weather, warm, and everywhere we passed there were few people to be seen. We drove pretty fast, and I thought we could just as well go and look at both villages. Unless the first had been burnt, something which I again began to doubt. After all, Florines wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t going to burn a village where there was sure to be a bunch of his friends living. After a rather sharp curve, the blue mountains lay before us. Then when we had passed the little wood on the right-hand side of the road, the first village would come in sight. We were past the wood, but I did not see the village. I only heard some confused exclamations from the men behind me. And then I saw that it was not there to be seen. Only a few charred ruins standing upright. The village had been burnt down. It was as burnt as burnt could be.

Florines had burnt not only this village but also two others, all together three. Fortunately, the third village was not much more than a hamlet, near the second one, so that I did not necessarily have to list it as a separate item in the inventory. It was bad enough as it was. 156 ALBERT ALBERTS I decided to hold a council of war. It was about time to do something of the kind. We just let the lorries stop somewhere. I had first thought of driving on to the centre of the village, but I could no longer find it, the centre. Formerly a kind of small square had been there, but now it was one and all square. People were walking around searching for things; here and there some of them were sitting on stones. They looked at us. Of course. There was not much else to look at. Half an hour later I had heard enough particulars from some twenty mouths to be able to form for myself a rather clear picture of what had happened. Captain Florines had entered the village yesterday afternoon with fifty strange men. He had gone to the village square, and since such an entrance was after all somewhat unusual, the villagers had followed him to see what would happen. Most of them had already returned from work in the fields, and it must have been rather crowded on the little square when Florines stood there waiting at the head of his men, so to speak, till everyone was present to hear what he had to say. They had not worn white clothes, Florines and his men, but they had rifles with them. And cartridge belts, three to a man. So it looked like a nice friendly even­ ing. Anyhow, Florines had told them that they must all leave the village. He had become quite furious when they did not leave immediately, but—quite understandably, it must be admitted—remained there on the square looking at Florines with questioning faces, saying nothing. And suddenly big flames sprang up from one of the houses, which Florines had stood with his back to. The fire in the first house spread im­ mediately to the one next to it, but the people disappeared even more swiftly from the square and from the village, and Florines must have been able to look for quite a while at a great emptiness before the crack­ ling of the flames enveloped everything else and the heat drove him, too, away. That was yesterday afternoon and evening. Yesterday afternoon and evening Florines had left this burning village to set fire to two other villages and then disappear in search of night quarters in the mountains, while I had simply slept in my bed that night and fooled around my of­ fice the following morning. I had told my chief that it was ridiculous to talk about burning villages, and here I stood in the middle of a charred ruin, while Florines looked down on me from yonder hazy heights. For that matter, perhaps Florines had merely gone back to his own house. Actually, that was the most probable and therefore the most humiliating. Florines who, after all his incendiarism, had gone calmly home with his fifty men. He had kept the fifty men with him, of course. But in heaven’s name, that was all nearly twenty-four hours ago. The men of the burnt THE CHASE 157 village stood around us. Stood looking at the help that had come twenty- four hours too late for them. They really weren’t looking, they just stood there staring. And I had to return. It was half past four, and I would have to return. If necessary, I could ride on to the other village, but in any case I would have to make out a report that evening. A report about two burnt villages and a rebel who, after his performance, had gone calmly to his own house to sleep. I called the commandant to me. We are going to the next village, I said curtly. We started for the next village—a normal thing to do, it must be said. I climbed on the same lorry as the commandant, and we drove along the road through a land as still as death. As still as death, until the comman­ dant nudged me. He pointed ahead, a little to the side. I looked in that direction, but did not see anything. I don’t see anything, I said. There, near the woods, the commandant exclaimed impatiently. I heard the men who were standing on our lorry talking excitedly to one another, but still I did not see anything. I looked at the commandant and made a sign to drive more slowly. The commandant bent over to the chauffeur, and we drove more slowly. We even stopped. I pretended now for heaven’s sake that I saw something too. The men jumped out of the lorry, as did the commandant, but I just stood there, looking. And then finally I saw it. A little group of figures came out of the woods and moved towards us. There they come! I yelled. As if everybody had not seen that for some time already. So there came Captain Florines at the head of his men. Captain Florines was going to join in battle with his pursuers. At that moment I thought for the first time about a wild boar, a boar that has been hit and that comes out of the woods to hurl itself on its pursuers. Suddenly I remembered that I still had the cartridges for my pistol in my trousers pocket. Then I would have to meet the enemy with an un­ loaded pistol, for to take the box of cartridges out of my pocket at this tense moment would hardly be the thing to do. I would have to break open a firmly sealed and well-packed box and then load my pistol. Such a display of unpreparedness would destroy the men’s confidence in me at one fell swoop. So I decided only to take out my pistol, for when they started to shoot, they probably would not notice that I was not shooting along with them. That must be a bunch from the second village, I heard the comman­ dant saying next to me. I put the pistol back again quickly. Of course, they were people from the second village that had been burnt down by Florines. They were com- 158 ALBERT ALBERTS ing from that direction, only they had taken a short cut through the woods. Yes, they came from the second village, and their story differed sight­ ly from that of the inhabitants of the first village. Florines and his men had not called everyone together first, but had begun immediately with plundering a couple of houses and then setting them on fire. Besides that they had kicked and beaten people, and finally all of the villagers fled. Then the village was set afire behind them, and Florines and his men had gone on eastward, where they looted and burnt the hamlet that lay there. After that, nothing more had been heard of him. The people thought that he would be in the mountains. In any case, he had not come this way. I asked one of the refugees if the village had been burnt to the ground. Yes, it had been burnt to the ground. Nothing had been left standing. In that case, I said to the commandant, there is not much sense in go­ ing on to the village. The commandant pulled an undecided face. We could perhaps still find some tracks, he supposed. Shouldn’t we go to Florines’ house first? I asked. The commar.dant shook his head now quite decidedly no. We had better go to the v.llage first, sir, he said. I began to believe that the man was right. Of course the man was right, although I did not understand why. Besides, it would really be very good for my position if we went on to the following village. Then I could make up a more comprehensive report, I would get home later, and the later I got home, the later I would have to telephone in my unpleasant message. At that same moment I got an excellent idea. You are right, I said to the commandant. It would really be best to keep on following the track. It is old, the track, but still it is better to keep on following it. Though we must take care that it does not get any older than it is. What do you mean? asked the commandant. First we must go to the second village, I said, and then, of course, we must also go to the hamlet, and then we must stay and bivouac some­ where near there. Because if we were to go home first and then begin all over again tomorrow, we would lose much too much time. There is something in that, said the commandant. I flushed with pleasure. That’s the way people are. I flushed with plea­ sure. Besides, I said perseveringly, besides, if we stay near here, Florines will get it out of his head to burn more villages. Possibly, said the commandant, possibly. THE CHASE 159 We decided to send back one of the lorries with four men to pick up the necessary equipment for our night’s bivouac. Chiefly blankets and coffee. I also asked for a towel, a piece of soap, and a toothbrush. The commandant thought we did not need reinforcements for our platoon. Everything suited me. I did not have to make out a report that evening. I did not have to telephone that evening. I could not even be telephoned to. I gave the policemen a note for my clerk. Would he let my chief know that I was trailing Florines and that I would not return until I had him. In fact, it was quite impressive. I was exceptionally pleased with myself. The whole troop climbed onto one lorry, while the other drove back. We went on in a southerly direction. We were getting nearer and nearer to the foot of the blue mountains. After twenty minutes we came to the second village. Completely burnt down, to be sure. We found a group of some thirty people there, men, women, and children. I asked where the others were. Why, the others had gone to look for shelter with friends and relatives. And you people not? I asked. Well, they were not really from this region, and they did not know anyone here. We’ll have to send these people to the town, I said to the commandant. They cannot stay here another night in the open. They can stay overnight at the police barracks, said the commandant. There is room enough there now. So we sent the other lorry down with the thirty rather listless-looking people, and we ourselves continued on foot past the burnt village, further southward, where a large farm lay. We would put up our bivouac there, at least if Florines had not burnt it down. Couldn’t Florines be there himself? I asked the commandant. Absolutely not, said the commandant. Florines has gone on farther, and I rather think that I know where he is. I’ve asked for a map from headquarters, and then we’ll go over the situation with a fine-tooth comb. I was more than satisfied. I wanted to look for Florines, and I wanted to find him, but I did not want to see him any more that night. I was fed up with Florines, as if I had had him visiting me three days in succession. The farm was still standing, and Florines was not there. He had been there, yesterday evening late, but had gone on. They had slaughtered a cow, he and his gang, and they had paid for the animal, too. They had taken the meat with them when they went on further southward. It was quite a relief to me. A fire was laid, food was cooked, and an hour later the commandant and I each sat behind a big steaming plate. In the meantime the lorries 160 ALBERT ALBERTS had returned and the commandant had got his map. After eating, we spread it out on the table, put an oil lamp on top of it, and under the yellow rays began to plot our strategy. According to the map there was a pass that began quite near to our farm, leading southward over the mountains, and descending on the other side to the sea. Now the commandant thought that Florines had gone over this pass and then along the coast until he reached a fishers’ place about twenty miles farther to the east. There he would rent or steal boats to take him to safety. I did not believe it. I did not see Florines in a boat. Besides, if it were true, we could just as well go home at once, for we would never catch up with him. Where exactly is Florines’ house? I asked. The commandant pointed to a spot about fifty miles to the southwest. But he can’t reach that from here, he said. He would have had to come along this side of the mountains, and then we would surely have met him. We finally decided that the next day we would go over the pass and down to the coast. If we found no trace of Florines there, then we would take the mountains going westward, if necessary as far as Florines’ house, and return from there to our post again. It would at be least a two days’ journey. When we got up from our consultation we heard someone shout, and a little later we heard two shots, one right after the other. The first thing I thought was: Damn, I have forgotten again to load my pistol. And then: Florines has come back. Florines hasn’t gone away in a boat. He won’t make us go to the coast tomorrow for nothing. I got the feeling that it was friendly of Florines not to leave us in the lurch. Some­ thing like a hunter must feel when, not having shot anything the whole day, suddenly, beyond all expectation, he sights a quarry in front of his barrel. One of the police had fired a shot. He had seen someone prowling near the farm. He had called to him and, when there was no reply, had fired. But that second shot? asked the commandant. Well, the man had fired two shots. I’ll send a couple of men out immediately, said the commandant. He did not go himself, so I thought it unnecessary for me to go either. I un­ folded the map again. To the west of the pass that we would take the next day was a mountain top. The map gave its height as 3,543 feet. I had a feeling that Florines would be there. I called the owner of the farm. I pointed at the mountain top. Does anyone live there? I asked. There was a house on the mountain top. There was a house where hunters sometimes stayed over night. THECHASE 161 Florines is there, I thought. He is there tonight, and he will be there again tomorrow night. I went to the room where I was to sleep. I took the pistol from my pocket and the box of cartridges. I heard the commandant’s voice out­ side in the yard. Did they find anything? I called. No, they had not found anything. I went back to my pistol and loaded it. I put it under my pillow. Tomorrow the chase would begin. The first chase in which I would participate with a weapon. The chase for quarry that without the least doubt would be kind enough not to go outside our hunting grounds. It would really be my second chase, after fifteen years. Fifteen years ago, my first chase, and from that first time I had retained a feeling of affinity with the driven quarry.

As a youth of eighteen I had once witnessed a battue. I was then living on the Veluwe south of the Dutch Crown Demesne, and I was in love with a girl on the north side. Prince Hendrik was dead, and the wild boars he no longer chased flourished copiously. Very copiously. They poured out of their allotted reserves into the surrounding woods and fields. They even came to the gardens in the centre of the village to root in the flower beds. Moreover, I could hear them grunting when I biked in the evenings without a light through the Demesne, going from north to south, over the strictly forbidden royal avenue. They were a part of the woods, just as the creaking of trees was a part of the woods. They held no terrors, the boars. To have met a forester would have been much worse. A forester would shout: Halt! Dismount! and then he would stand his bicycle at a very irritating angle across the road and you would have to get off, then he would pull a dog’s-eared notebook from his breast pocket, lick the stub of a pencil, and write and write, reeking the whole time of corduroy. A wild boar didn’t do any of this. A wild boar only grunted in the brush­ wood and remained, almost apologetically, invisible. I rarely got to see a wild boar. And one of those few times that I did made a deep impression on me. It was once when I was just outside the Demesne, near one of the swing-gates that could be opened with a wire catch. I had left the Demesne by this gate, when, at a distance of a hun­ dred yards, I saw a wild boar coming. It bolted over the road, headed in my direction. In the distance I heard confused shouting, and I under­ stood that the beast was being hunted. When the boar saw me it swerved from its course. It saw in me a new danger that it had to escape, but meanwhile it had come so close that I could hear it panting from exer­ tion. And the way it was running there suddenly reminded me of my own 162 ALBERT ALBERTS chubby little dog, and perhaps that is why I felt compassion for it. I pulled the gate open by the wire catch and stood aside. The beast saw the opening to safety and flew past me still panting, after which I quickly closed the gate behind him. Then I biked away and, a little later, landed in the middle of the troop of hunters, who were off the scent. They said nothing, and I said nothing. On the Veluwe people very seldom get stirred up. During that same period I myself once escaped a forester. I saw the fellow at a couple of hundred yards biking calmly towards me as I was biking towards him. A snake and a bird. A snake on a bike and a bird on a bike. Suddenly I felt such a furious pity for myself that I sprang off my bike and rushed into the bushes with it. A moment later I threw the bike into a hollow because it hampered me in my flight. I ran on until I came to the earthen wall which, in the Demesne, was called the Second Java Fort. This fort lay on strictly forbidden territory, and it was probably still in the same state as when King William III had built it. The wall formed an oblong quadrangle and must have been ten feet high; it was so densely grown over that it had become a kind of Sleeping Beauty’s fort. Anyone who did not know that it existed could walk along a couple of yards away from it without seeing anything more than an astonishingly tangled, dense column of umbrella pines. I ran to this fort. I knew there was an entrance at each of the four cor­ ners. I pushed my way through. Once on the inside, which was also full of trees and shrubs, I let myself fall to the ground, gasping for breath. I panted heavily and cautiously. I did not want to betray my presence. I panted as the wild boar had done. I felt at that moment like the boar that was menaced by his pursuers, and as I lay there grunting I was quite sorry for myself. I must have lain there about an hour, when the fear induced metamor­ phosis, the self-pity, and the romanticizing began to give way to bore­ dom. I got up and left the fort. I went back in the direction of the royal avenue. My bike still lay intact in the hollow, and there was no sign of a forester. Possibly the man hadn’t seen me at all. That was my first chase. And tomorrow my second would begin. My loaded pistol, my weapon for the hunt, lay under my pillow.

On awakening the following morning I hadn’t the slightest notion of the time, as is usually the case in strange surroundings. I got up, put on my clothes, and went outside. Nothing was to be seen of the policemen. At the back of the farm the view was screened by a row of trees with low branches. Farther away I heard the pattering of water, and I followed the sound, through the trees, till I came to the open country. The blue moun- THE CHASE 163 tains now lay just before me, and the water came from a mountain brooklet that sprang over a jutting boulder, forming a miniature water­ fall. I pulled my clothes off again and squatted down under it. I gasped for breath under the slashing cold of the water. The blue mountains were close by. Everywhere lay boulders like the one in front of which I was squatting. Florines could be behind any one of them. I would be the easiest prey he could ever wish for. But Florines would not shoot. The hunting season was closed for both of us for a short while, a couple of hours perhaps. During those few moments that I squatted there in animal delight under the slashing water, I was the quarry, the boar, but Florines would not open chase. I was a human being again when I noticed that I had not brought a towel with me. I dried myself as well as I could with my shirt, dressed, and went back to the house. A little later I met the commandant. I asked him what he thought about the time for departure, and he said that it depended on the route we would follow. I thought we had decided on that last evening, I said; but the commandant was not so sure about it. We unrolled the map once again, and then it appeared that the comman­ dant had sacrificed a part of his night’s rest to the fabricating of a num­ ber of pins with little red and white flags. Evidently he had had so much satisfaction yesterday in his role of chief of staff—excellently played, too—that he wanted to give a second performance. The flags were pricked on the map. The red were for Florines, the white for us. Those shots got me to thinking, said the commandant. Those shots had been fired by his own policeman, but no matter, I was for any change that would bring us closer to the 3,543 foot mountain. For the moment we decided to follow the mountain pass and then half­ way to hold another council of war. We started out. The lorries were left behind at the farm, guarded by two policemen and the chauffeurs. The path along which we walked was hard in the beginning but became more and more overgrown. Our formation on departure, at the comman­ dant’s order, was that each man should walk about two yards behind the one in front of him. The commandant led, I followed as number two, and thus we walked in a long string over the gradually rising path. The blue mountains lay in front of us, the hunting grounds lay stolid and in­ ert before the hunters. No one spoke. Everyone went on with fixed atten­ tion. The chase had begun. The tempo in which we walked was not rapid, but very steady. I really saw nothing but the regular movement of the man’s legs in front of me, and I moved mine just as regularly. When I finally looked back a mo­ ment, I saw that the plain already lay far beneath and behind us. But at 164 ALBERT ALBERTS the same moment I lost the cadence of our steps, and it took me awhile to get hold of the rhythm again. It grew warmer. It grew terribly warm. Without stopping, I pulled off my shirt and threw it over my shoulders. I wasn’t thinking about Florines any more. There was nothing else but the monotonous, monopolizing movement of legs. The path grew stonier. Loose stones, which made walking more diffi­ cult because the cadence was interrupted, but we went on. For hours, I felt. Finally the commandant stood still. He turned round, and now I saw his face for the first time since the beginning of the march. It was flaming red. The policemen came and stood round us. I think that I was too tired and stiff to sit down. I leaned against the wall of the pass. The commandant announced that we were now halfway, that we would rest for an hour and then decide which way to go. Meanwhile I had found a couple of bushes, and I let myself fall full length in the shade they cast. The others looked for a similar place. No one said anything. Everyone was dead tired. We had lain like that for a half hour, perhaps, when I heard voices. I sat up and saw that the policemen were looking and pointing in the direc­ tion that we had come from. I asked what was up. It turned out to be the two policemen that we had left behind with the lorries. They were coming up the pass at a rather high speed. When they had reached us they came directly to me, actually clicked their heels together, too, and one of them gave me a letter. It was from my clerk. Sir: This morning at seven o’clock a.m. thirty-four persons belonging to Captain Florines’ gang gave themselves up at the police station here. Their weapons were removed from them, and they have been taken into custody. Captain Florines is still at large. Respectfully. I gave the letter to the commandant. What do you say about that? I asked. Mmm, yes, said the commandant. Mmm, yes, that changes things, of course. Those fellows must have had a quarrel, or they got scared. Would Florines have gone back to his own house? I asked. Possibly, said the commandant, possibly. He won’t have taken flight by sea, I said. Possibly not, said the commandant. We’ll find out when we question the prisoners. So you want to go back first? I asked. That would be the best, said the commandant. Otherwise it is like looking for a needle in a haystack. He was right, of course. We had to go back. The descent would go eas- THE CHASE 165 ily and rather quickly. We would find the lorries at the farm and be home before dark. The chase was a failure. Give me five men, I said suddenly to the commandant. Then I’ll go and have a look in the direction of that mountain. If Florines is not there, I’ll make the descent from that spot. We got out the map. It would be quite possible, the commandant thought. Then he could send the lorries back to a certain point below along the road, and that way I could also be home the same evening. Half an hour later I was alone with my five men, my hunting compan­ ions. The commandant had given me his map, and we had taken all there was to drink along with us. After the others were gone we remained sit­ ting a quarter of an hour longer. I studied the map once more with the eldest of the policemen who had stayed behind, and we agreed which way we would take. It could now be considered real climbing. The eldest policeman was in front, and the rest of us followed. After we had clambered over boulders for some time, the ground became less stony, and finally we entered a wood. There we rested again. The wood was thick and it was fairly cool. As good hunters we had all gradually got the definite feeling that we were on the track of the quarry, though we hadn’t the slightest logical motive for this feeling. When we are out of this wood, said the eldest policeman, we still have an hour’s climb, and then we’ll have reached the top of the mountain. The best would be to climb it along this side. On this side there aren’t many stones. Outside the wood the ground did indeed seem to be free of stones. We climbed farther now without resting. The surroundings were ideal for ap­ proaching the quarry in its hiding place. Quite near the top grew bushes and low trees, giving us cover. At last we reached the top. We squatted in the bushes and looked at the house that stood in the middle of the mountain’s flattened top. It looked completely deserted. A shutter on one of the windows flapped and creaked in the wind. We left the bushes. We had, finally, to search the house. We crept there cautiously. Then, like a hunter who suddenly sees a better, more advantageous spot than his fellow hunters, I went round the left side of the house, while the others went round the right side. I went round the left side of the house. On my toes I stole along the hedge that grew round the back compound. I had my pistol in my hand. I heard something. I heard the sound of falling water. I peered through the hedge. A man stood at a round stone well. He had a small pail in his hand 166 ALBERT ALBERTS with which he dipped up water and then let it run over his head. He stood with his back to me, but I recognized Florines. It was Florines, but it was now also the boar, and I was no longer the hunter. A boar at his drinking place, and I had to warn it. I had to drive it into a safe thicket before the others got hold of it. I had to save my friend the boar. Psst, I called, psst. The boar did not hear, it must have been deafened by the water in its ears. Hey, I called, hey! Then the boar turned round. I saw Florines’ face. The pale, somewhat swollen, flabby face of Florines, the common, dirty face of Florines, from which the water was dripping. He looked straight into the setting sun, and possibly that is why it looked as if he were grinning. I had pushed my hands through the hedge, the pistol in my right hand. I fired. Florines threw up his arms and made a tremendous leap. He landed on his feet, and as if propelled by a spring he jumped again and again, his arms still raised. Then with a thud, he fell on the ground. Prostrate.

I was still standing there by the hedge when the men gathered round Florines. He’s dead! they called. He’s dead as a doornail! Right through the middle of his head. I stood by the hedge. I felt something on my right hand. I looked at it. It was my index finger, my crooked index finger that had lain on the trig­ ger. I straightened it with my left hand, but a moment later I felt it again, my crooked index finger. One of the policemen asked if they should carry Florines down. No, for God’s sake don’t, I said. For God’s sake don’t. I went up to them. They had turned him over. Turn him back again, I said. If he lay face down I could perhaps believe again that it wasn’t Florines. We won’t take him with us, I said. We will burn him here. He has burnt villages, now we’ll burn him too. This retaliation satisfied my policemen completely. They began imme­ diately to gather wood, and soon an enormous funeral pyre was built up. Lay him on it, face down, I said. It was done. Set fire to the wood, I said. A moment later the flames leapt out in all directions. They laughed, the policemen, they thought it a great joke of mine to have caught Florines that way. But I was not even thinking of Florines any longer. I saw only the flames, my last greeting to the boar, my friend. When the fire threatened to die down, the policemen threw on more THE CHASE 167 wood. It had grown dark, and the flames lit the house and our faces. The wood crackled and the men laughed and shouted. But finally everything was quiet. The fire died out and it became dark. Dark and terribly cold. It was so bitter, so bitterly cold, after the burning of Captain Florines. 11. MARIA DERMOÜT-INGERMAN

Introduction The family of Maria Dermoüt had lived in Indonesia for several genera­ tions. In “ Only Yesterday’’ Maria Dermoüt gives an account of the life of a child growing up in a wealthy family of Dutch descent surrounded not only by the grown-ups of her own family but also—and this is very important for Dermoüt’s literary development—by Javanese servants. On the one hand Dermoüt was exposed to the Western influences of her parents, emphasized by frequent trips to Holland. On the other hand, there were the servants, an integral part of the household. Maria Der­ moüt married in the Indies and raised her family there. Only at the age of sixty-two, after retiring in Holland, did she begin to publish her literary work. During the last ten years of her life, she finished two novels and several bundles of short stories. Her collected works were published in 1971 (Querido). “The Sirens” shows the influence of Javanese storytelling on Maria Dermoüt, as well as a thorough understanding and appreciation of the supernatural elements of another culture.1

NOTE 1. “The Sirens” appeared in The Harpers Bazaar, February 1962, pp. 82 ff. Translation by Etty Kist and James Brockway. Reprinted with permission. The Sirens

The story goes . . . It was not a man but a woman who bought the proa, a beautiful proa, carved, gaily painted, on the stem the single, wide open, “ all-seeing” eye, tall masts of bamboo, which could be lowered when the wind would not come, triangular sails of plaited leaves, brown and red, which could also be lowered, or could serve as an awning in storm or shower, or when there was too much sunlight or too much moonlight. A proa with a broad bamboo wing on one side, and of shallow draught to get through the straits between the drowned lands, with here, there and everywhere small islands, one large island far away on the one side, and a great continent far away on the other. Where? Once everything had formed part of that continent: the single large island, all the little islands, the drowned land in between, all one land. The Land of the Tiger had been its name, long ago. The Land of the Tiger was there no more. The sea was still there, as of old. The woman did not buy the proa because she loved the sea. She did not love the sea. She was afraid of the sea. She loved the great continent she had never seen but where she longed to go, she must! She should! That was the reason she had bought the proa. That was the reason she had left the one large island, her home. Where along the river, on the edge of the woods, under the trees, stood the “ longhouses” (which belonged to the women), built on high stilts, with beautiful carved beams, with beautiful carved flights of steps |

170 MARIA DERMOÜT Where every night torches were lighted, exactly half an hour after mid­ night, and the men had to leave the women, going down the steps of the longhouses, down a dark path to their own quarters, some distance into the woods. Where she, too, lived in a longhouse with her mother, who was the head of the family, of all the families in the longhouse. The women and children in the houses, the men on their own in the woods. And she the eldest daughter! Where life could have been good, waiting for her turn to buy, for so many sarongs and headcloths woven with gold or silver thread and weighed on the scales, a man she liked; waiting to bear children, preferably female children! Listening to the roaring waters, the tall rus­ tling trees, and at half an hour after midnight the crackle of blazing torches, and the sound of the men’s voices coming through the dark, as they climbed down the stairs of the longhouses, complaining as they went. Waiting for her turn to become the head of the family, of all the families in the longhouse, after her mother had died. But this woman had not awaited her turn, she had bought a proa with everything that went with it, and a young man for her shipmate; and a cat, a striped cat, yellow and black, for the mice. She was afraid of mice. And she had put to sea on the proa, with the man, with the cat, sailing through the straits between the drowned land and the myriad small islands, which she visited one after the other—with the one large island where she would never return to one side—to search for the great conti­ nent on the other. For days, for months, for years. She never found the continent, the story goes. In the market places on the little islands the villagers drew in their breaths, and stared at one another. The woman! A heavy, full sarong woven of real gold and silver threads, a black girdle around her waist, a cloth of black silk swathed about her breasts, her black hair combed tightly back and oiled; moving easily, her shoulders pulled back, looking straight ahead of her, and always in front. Behind her came the man, beautifully dressed like herself, a straight sarong tied high up under the armpits, a headcloth, both rich with gold and silver, a present from the woman in all probability, a flower tucked behind his ear. He kept his distance, and carried a basket containing their provisions. He was a young man, younger than the woman, but not young enough to be her son. Too old for a son? Too young for a hus­ band? Who was he? What was he? Relation? Shipmate? Lover? No one could tell from his appearance. Beside the woman walked a large yellow and black striped cat, who THE SIRENS 171 would meow from time to time and stroke his flanks against her sarong until the woman said “ Pssh!” to him and he returned to his place at her side. At the markets on those little islands the woman bought provisions. Fresh, clean water for the earthenware bowls on the proa, charcoal for cooking when at sea, oil for a lamp at night and food for herself, the man and the cat, rice and tubers, red peppers, coconuts and lots of lemons, dried meat and fish which would keep a long time, and sweetmeats, tobacco and perfume. She was fond, too, of buying flowers, flowering shrubs in pots, which lasted well, even on a boat. Most of all she liked the hibiscus, with its red flowers. The man wore a red hibiscus flower behind his ear. ” He must be the woman’s lover! For the cat she bought raw meat, still red with blood. Cats like blood. The woman paid in cloths of gold or silver thread, large and small. Afterward she dealt out some sweetmeats and tobacco and stood talk­ ing with the villagers in the market places on the little islands; about the weather and the wind and the straits and about the drowned land—she stared straight ahead of her—and . . . about the continent. The villagers would nod; they had heard about it. Some said they knew where it was. One man said he had been there. But when the woman asked where? Where? they pointed North and South and East and West, to the four silent Sheikhs at the corners of the earth, to all four at once. “Ah, bah,” said the woman and shrugged her shoulders. The young man and the cat stood there silent, the one behind her, the other at her side. They took no part in the conversation. They listened. Was the young man the woman’s lover? The young man was the woman’s lover. It had come about like this. Not all at once, not in the beginning. In the beginning the woman slept on her beautiful, painted wooden couch behind a matted sail, while the mate slept here and there in the proa, on a little mat. The cat tried to find a place to sleep on the woman’s couch; sometimes she would allow it, not every night. One day, when they had been sailing for a long time around the little islands, around the drowned land, without finding the continent, the woman called the shipmate and told him that he should share her couch at night. Then she would give him the trunk full of beautiful men’s clothes, the gold and silver sarongs and the headcloths; not only for him to wear on special occasions, for the market, but for keeps. He could weigh the clothes on the scales if he liked, to see their worth. And she would give him the flowerpots on the stern with the red-flowered hibis- 172 MARIA DERMOÜT cus, for him to keep as his own. The man gazed at the woman as she spoke. He had often gazed at her; the way she would squat on a mat, the way she would lie on the couch, the way she rose and walked away, the way she halted, paused; he had often gazed at the way she held her head and looked straight ahead of her as she was speaking. He, too, had come from the one large island, but in his part there were no longhouses. There a woman walked and stood and held her head in quite a different way. There a woman did not look straight ahead of her and say what she pleased: that a man may come and share her couch at night. There a man said such things to a woman. Like that. And walked and stood and held his head, like that, and looked straight ahead of him. The mate thought the woman beautiful, in her golden sarong, black girdle, black breastcloth, with black knotted hair, looking straight ahead of her, as she stood by the rail of the proa, the sky a nocturnal blue, the moon and stars behind her. And the sea under the white moonlight, he thought beautiful, too; and the horizon silvery, hazy, far away—was there land over there? Or was there no land over there? And the proa, too, he thought beautiful: the masts, the purple sails, all its carved wood­ work; and the gold and silver clothes in the trunk as well, the sarongs and headcloths, and on the stern the flowerpots with the hibiscus and its red flowers. He was fond of red flowers. He was fond of all these things. “ All right,” he said to the woman, “ as you wish.” It was not the first time he had shared a woman’s couch. He liked do­ ing so. The mate, the young man, Tuangku So-and-So, or whatever his name might be, liked quite a number of things. The only thing he did not like was the cat. It was as though the woman noticed it. During the day the cat would be lying somewhere on the proa in the sun, licking itself clean with a curly pink tongue, blinking its yellow eyes against the light, yawning, and dozing a little. But at night when the man and the woman were lying on the couch, the cat would be gone. Some­ times, absentminded, the young man would ask: “ Where is that cat?” not because he cared; he did not. And the woman would say she had put the cat down in the hold where there were mice. He would catch them in the dark. Sometimes, when it was a still, windless night, and the proa was quiet on its anchor stones, and the man and the woman quiet on their couch, they could hear the cat. A dull thud like a cat jumping, peep, peep, and then nothing more but the sound of crunching, for a second, a second, no more. THE SIRENS 173 The young man drew in his breath between his lips. “ Ugh, cats love blood!’’ he said and shuddered. “ Yes,” said the woman at his side, “ cats love blood.” Every day, in the late afternoon when work was finished, when the proa was washed down and scrubbed for the night, they would throw out their anchor somewhere on the lee side, near the drowned land, not so near that the proa could run aground, still out in the deep water. Then they washed and scrubbed themselves down to be clean for the night. They liked to be clean, all three of them. The cat washed and licked itself almost every moment of the day and night. He was always clean. The woman hung up a sail to act as a screen and washed herself behind it with fresh water from a bowl; she always used oils and perfume and lemons, then she was clean, and fragrant too. The young man took a daily plunge in the sea. He was a good swim­ mer. Every day the woman tried to restrain him, but he would not listen to her. He laid aside his flower, his headcloth and his sarong, and dived into the sea over the railing of the proa. With a few short, powerful strokes, he put the deep water, full of sharks who like blood—he knew that well enough!—behind him. He always said he swam faster and better than the sharks. And then he was above the drowned land, it was not deep there. Vast plains under the water, covered with algae like grass, green and brown and very wet. And in these meadows cattle were grazing, as they should be. In the meadows of the sea, the sea-cattle were grazing. They grazed in herds on the floor of the shallows, large and black, with tails like fishes, with round black heads, round black glimmering eyes, round mouths with protruding white teeth, with which they nibbled at the algae. They were mammals, with breasts like a woman’s with two long fins to the right and left, on which they would lean, as though they were arms, whenever they lifted themselves up. And this they often had to do, to breathe in air above the surface and to gaze out over the sea. Not in the fierce sunlight. In the dusk, in mist, or at night. They looked like women, these sea-cattle. And they lowed. Accompanied, muted, sometimes drowned by the noise of sea, waves, and wind, they seemed to sing, these black women under the water—the Sirens, as they have been called from ancient days. The young man went up to them, wading through the shallows, and stood at their sides, sat down among them. Or, if the water was very shallow, he would lie down on this back, in their midst. They came nearer, forming a circle around him. They did not harm 174 MARIA DERMOÜT him, they were only curious. They lifted their bodies, their heads; they looked at him, and they sang to him. After awhile he came back, wading through the shallows, swimming very powerfully through the deep sea where the sharks lay in wait, and climbed back into the proa. He felt clean after his swim. He took a fresh sarong and headcloth, plucked himself a new, red flower. And then the woman said: “Why do you swim in the sea every day? What is the point of it? Those sea-cattle will do you harm. One day they will kill you and drink your blood!’’ The man laughed: “ Since when did cattle drink blood? Cats like blood, and sharks.” And drawing away from the woman, he gazed back upon the drowned meadows, green and brown under the water, and at the black, recumbent forms there, and pointing to them, he said: “ Those creatures over there aren’t cows. They’re women.” The woman stood there in that way of hers, her shoulders pulled back, her head held high, and looking straight ahead of her. “ Ah bah! What beautiful women!” she said scornfully. “ I did not say they are beautiful,” said the man, “ no one could say that the black women under the water are beautiful.” After a pause he added: “ They can sing. Didn’t you ever hear it? If you were to listen carefully, you could hear it, too.” “Ah bah!” said the woman, “ cows are cows, on land and under the sea. Cows do not sing, they low! ’ ’ The young man did not answer. He stood beside her in his gold and sil­ ver garments, the red flower behind his ear, looking beyond her and smil­ ing. He liked the green and brown meadows. And the black women. And their singing. Every day, at dusk, as night began to fall, this scene would be repeated. The woman said this, the man said that, and at night they lay side by side on the couch. The woman always wore—all the women of the longhouses did—a pin, as thin as a gold thread from her sarong. Nobody could see she was wear­ ing it. Not at once, gradually, the woman got into the habit of rising in the night from the man’s side, carefully! He lay, as he always lay when asleep, flat on his back, his arms at his side to left and right, one hand hanging over the edge of the couch. He slept, sound and deep, and dreamed. The woman walked, as she always walked, but very cautiously now, along the one plank that did not creak, to the trapdoor covering the hatch and opened it—the hinges were well-oiled—whispered, “ Puss,” and the cat—very cautiously too—came up from the hold and together THE SIRENS 175 they walked back, the woman on bare feet, the cat on velvet paws, along the plank that did not creak. The woman bent down, took the sleeper’s hand—he did not notice it—and pricked the tip of his finger with the little gold pin, so quickly, so carefully, he did not feel anything. She kept hold of the hand, as slowly, drop by drop, the blood started to flow from it. “ Puss,” she said, without moving her lips; and the cat opened his mouth and the drops of blood fell onto his tongue, not a drop was spilled, and the man did not feel a thing. After a time the blood stopped flowing. The woman dried the man’s hand gently and laid it on the couch at his side. He slept on; he had felt nothing. The cat licked his mouth clean and the woman conducted him back to the hatchway, fastened down the trapdoor after him and went back to lie down beside the man on the couch again, so quietly that he did not notice a thing. The same scene was repeated every day, in the evening twilight . . . during the night. . . . One day when the young man woke in the early morning and lifted himself up on the couch, he saw that the sun had colored everything a rosy red: the woman and himself and the proa and the drowned land and the sea-cattle and a little island somewhere and the far horizon, and he stroked his hand over his eyes, his head. “ I sometimes have very queer dreams,” he said to the woman. “ Not at all pleasant. Always the same dream, but I can’t remember what.” He looked pale in the morning light. And the woman said, “What is the use of all this swimming in the sea, it’s making you ill, and one day. . . .” And the man said. . . So now they said these things twice a day, at early dawn and late in the evening. The young man loved both—the morning and the evening; the day, the long and lovely day . . . and the night? He no longer knew whether he loved the night. In the past he had loved the night as well. And his dreams. Her shipmate did not rise from the couch that morning; the woman had left it long before he woke. He pulled himself up again, stroked his hand once more across his eyes, his head, and said: “ I remember now! I dreamed of the cat. All these nights I have been dreaming of the cat!” He cursed savagely, “ I don’t like dreaming of that wretched cat!” He seemed to be talking to himself, not to the woman, who made no reply. He fell back on the couch, he looked pale and kept falling asleep. That day the woman left the proa riding at anchor. She managed to do all the work. She hauled up a sail to prevent the sun from annoying the man. She cooked and brought him food and drink. But he cared for nei­ ther food nor drink. 176 MARIA DERMOÜT She asked if he would like her to wash him down? “ No,” he said. What he wanted was a clean sarong and headcloth. She fetched them and plucked a fresh, red hibiscus flower for him. “Thank you,” he said. He looked at the flower, sniffed at it—hibiscus flowers have no scent—put it in his hair and fell asleep again. At sunset, in the dusk, he got up and leaned against the rail. He could still have managed, he thought, to walk in the meadows, under the water, in the vicinity of the sea-cattle, but he knew for sure that he could no longer swim faster and more powerfully than the sharks. And so the woman no longer said this, the man that. Why should they? The man lay down again on the couch, closed his eyes, slept, dreamed. In the evening, at night, he no longer dreamed of the cat. The woman no longer lay down at his side—why should she? She slept somewhere, anywhere, in the proa, on a mat; she did not get up in the night, she did not use her pin, she did not open the trapdoor for the cat. Why should she? The cat meowed a little, down there in the hold. The man did not hear it. The woman feigned not to hear it. Never before had it been so dark—no moon, no stars and no oil left for the little lamp. The proa lay at anchor, the man lay silent on the couch, the woman silent on her mat, even the cat fell silent down in the hold, when late at night the wind rose, not a strong wind, not a storm or a typhoon or anything of that sort—just the wind—and the proa swayed a little, as if a strong current was drawing it through deep waters, so deep that the anchor stones could no longer reach the bottom. The woman squatted on her mat. What if they ran onto the submerged land and cap­ sized and were drowned? What if they were thrown up on a high shore or on the rocks? But none of these things happened— Slowly the proa was propelled forward toward some destination; its anchors afloat, all through the night. A slight shock. The proa lay still. The woman got up. She walked, groping through the dark, to the couch to rouse the mate. She could not rouse him. She caught hold of the hand that lay at his side on the couch. The hand felt chill in her own hand. She placed it back where it had lain. Suddenly the cat growled, again and again, down in the hold. “ Be quiet!” the woman whispered to herself and propped herself up against the couch to wait for the daylight. She waited for a long time. Why did it have to be so long? The mate did not move. Now and then the cat meowed, and every time the woman caught her breath. At last, in the first murky gray light long before the dawn, the woman saw that the proa was near land, that on one side it was touching it, the broad bamboo wing on the other side lying on the water. THE SIRENS 177 A steep shore, rocky and dark, and behind the rocks a forest—never before had she seen so dark a forest—and, in the distance, hills and fur­ ther forest. A land! Dark. A dark continent. The woman looked at the ship’s mate in the gray light. He was deathly pale. He was, in fact, dead. Down in the hold the cat meowed and growled so loud it was as if every now and then he screamed, and he kept jumping up against the trapdoor. “ Quiet!” the woman cried. First of all, she washed herself; she combed her hair, brushed her teeth, powdered her body; she opened a trunk and got out her most beautiful golden sarong, her most beautiful breastcloth; she pulled sarong and breastcloth tight about her and put on a broad girdle. Then she walked to the couch, bent down and took her shipmate up in her arms—he was not very heavy—walked with him to the railing of the proa, not on the side of the continent, on the other side, near the drowned land. She drew herself up and, arching her body she threw him over the side, beyond the bamboo wing, into the meadows under the waters, the fields where the sea-cattle graze. Then she turned away. The cat was now growling incessantly and jumping up incessantly at the trapdoor. The proa seemed to be creaking in all its joints. “ Yes, yes, all right!” said the woman, “ I’m coming.” And she opened the trapdoor; the cat came up out of the hold, lashing his tail to and fro. His burning yellow eyes took everything in at one glance: the woman, the proa, the drowned land on the one side, the sea-cattle—there the man was lying—the continent on the other side, the woods, the hills, the mountains, the forest all around, and again the woman—he growled and in one spring he leaped out of the proa and stood on the high rocky shore, a full grown tiger, golden yellow with black stripes, terrible to behold. The woman climbed, awkwardly, hampered by her golden sarong, first over the railing of the proa and then up the steep rocks, to join the animal which was waiting for her there. Then they walked on together, the tiger first, the woman following, to the forests on the hills, to the mountains of the great continent, their destination. . . . The beautiful proa was left abandoned (even the mice deserted it) on the shore of the continent, until the storm wind should come and dash it to pieces. Every night, in the light of the moon, in the light of the stars, perhaps even in the dark—but then no one can see—a young man, Tuangku So- and-So, or whatever his name may be, lies in a drowned meadow somewhere near Malaya. In a gold and silver sarong, strung up high under the armpits like a taut 178 MARIA DERMOÜT sleeve around his body, a narrow gold and silver cloth wound tightly around his head, a red flower, a hibiscus flower, behind his one ear. He lies straight and quiet among the moist brown and green algae. Yet he is not drowned. Neither is he asleep. He lies quietly on his back, his arms at his sides. He keeps his eyes closed, like one who is listening. He keeps his eyes open—then he is looking through the water. Around him, in a circle, are the black women, the Sirens, singing to him. They are singing about something, about anything, about everything. They are singing about a proa and a woman and a ship’s mate and a cat. They are singing about a great continent, somewhere, and about a tiger. But it is all an old story to him. Sometimes he cannot help but laugh at what they are singing; but not always. He lies very quiet, listening— He is a lucky man, that Tuangku So-and-So, or whatever his name may be. He will never grow old, he will never have to die again. Not only does he like the songs of the Sirens, he understands the songs of the Sirens— So the story goes. Glossary of Indonesian, Javanese, and Dutch Words Occurring in the Stories

The words in this glossary are Indonesian, unless otherwise specified. adat tradition, custom airwangi perfume, toilet water alang-alang sword grass, tall grass alun-alun village or city square amuk (amok) to go berserk, to incite someone to violence anak mas literally, golden child; favorite child andjing basah wet dog Apa boleh buat? What can one do? Ardjuna one of the heroes of the Hindu epic, the Mahabharata babu maidservant, domestic servant badju jacket, blouse badjing (Javanese) squirrel bale-bale bamboo cot batik method of hand-printing textiles with wax process bawa bring Bawa barang mandi. Bring the bath things, bendi a gig, two-wheeled carriage biawak (binjawak) iguana Buitenzorg area including Bogor in west Java dalang puppeteer, narrator and manipulator of Javanese and Sundanese shadow plays djaga guard, watchman; to guard /

180 GLOSSARY

djarak castor-oil plant d ja ti te a k djuragan master d u k u n shaman, medicine man, healer

g a ju n g water dipper g a le n g a n long narrow dike around a rice field g a m e la n Javanese orchestra g a n ra n g oblong wooden drum g u d a n g warehouse, storehouse, storeroom

h a d ji one who has made pilgrimage to Mecca

ikat-pending clasp, buckle

k a b u p a te n regency, residence of regent k a ju p e tih medicinal salve k a n d je n g form of address or reference for Javanese nobility of high rank k a m p re t b a t kebaja woman’s blouse reaching below the waist k e b o n -k o ta village garden, public garden k e d u n g eddy, whirlpool kelambu mosquito net kelapa coconut k ele w a n g saber, cutlass k e m u n in g choice, yellow-grained wood k e n a ri tree which produces nuts in a hard shell kepala head; leader k e ta p a n g tree bearing nuts resembling almonds k e w e d a n a a n residence of district chief k o k i c o o k k o n d e a hairstyle; a bun, knot of hair kota city, town k ra to n p a la c e kris dagger with serpentine blade k u tjia h professional actor

lajang-lajang k ite lip la p derisive name for Eurasians luak w ild c a t lu tu n g black monkey lu ra h village chief lurah preman civilian; form er village chief GLOSSARY 181 m a n d u r foreman, overseer m assa m a s te r m elati ja s m in e mevrouw (Dutch) M rs., married woman mevrouwtje (Dutch) diminutive of mevrouw, used affectionately or condenscendingly m o d in muezzin, one who calls to prayers neng polite form of address njonja besar M rs., madam; respected woman n o n a miss; unmarried European, Chinese or westernized Indonesian girl obat matjam some kind of medicine orang Belanda (blanda) Dutch people (often used to refer to Caucasians in g e n e ra l) oppasser (Dutch) overseer, native official pager(pagar) fence, hedge p a ju n g umbrella, parasol p a ra n g short sword, knife pasanggrahan re s th o u s e p a sa r m a r k e t pasar-malam fair, carnival, night m arket p a tju l h o e p elan g i rainbow; kain pelangi is a wom an’s scarf p e lita a light, lamp p e n g h u lu village chief, Moslem leader p e n tja k a system of self-defense p e rik sa investigation, inspection, examination p e rk u tu t tu rtle d o v e p e ta n g a n agent, factotum p in an g a re c a n u t p o n tia n a k g h o s t prau (perahu) boat, outrigger canoe p ro a variation of prau p u sa k a h e irlo o m residinan (keresidinan) residency, the regent’s residence r o ta n r a tta n sa d o small, two-wheeled carriage sa ro n g piece of cloth the ends of which have been sewn to g e th e r saw ah wet rice field 182 GLOSSARY se d e k a h alms, religious meal selendang (slendang) sh a w l sero fish tr a p sial to be unlucky; unfortunate, bad luck sirih a quid consisting of betel leaf, areca nut, lime and other ingredients; combined with saliva it becomes re d souteneur (French) supporter, provider s u d a h a lre a d y su sa h a bother, trouble telu h magical formula te n tu o f c o u rse tetek female breast tje la k a misfortune, bad omen tju lik to k id n a p to k e gecko, house lizard to to k newcomer; full-blooded: totok Belanda, full- blooded Dutchman tu a n form of address for Western adult males, but sometimes used to Indonesians; sire, master, lord tu d u n g s u n h a t tukang besi b la c k s m ith tukang kaju carpenter (also woodpecker) tukang lampu la m p b o y u n tu n g good fortune, good luck, lucky user-useran cowlick, pattern of hairgrowth which determines good or bad luck w a ja n g Javanese puppet show w a rin g in banyan tree w a ru n g small shop w e d a n a district chief widadari/bidadari an g el Bibliography of Translations of Dutch Literary Works about the East Indies/Indonesia

The items presented in this bibliography adequately represent four centu­ ries of Dutch colonial and post-colonial literature. American libraries will no doubt be able to supply additional items not mentioned in this bibliography, mainly because it is not easy to define what one should in­ clude under the rubric “ literature.” Is Van der Tuuk’s Grammar of Toba-Batak (included) literature? What about Fabricius’s report on the destruction of oil fields during the Second World War (not included)? In­ clusion or omission is bound to be arbitrary at times. Histories of col­ onial times, even if written by Dutchmen, have likewise been omitted. In most cases I have taken Nieuwenhuys’s Oost-Indische Spiegel as a guide, and have listed translations of works by those authors who are men­ tioned in this literary history. The names within the bibliography have been alphabetized by century. Works by an individual author are listed chronologically according to publication in translation, which factor will in many cases decide their availability. The date in brackets after the English title is the year in which the original Dutch work was published. The translations of this lit­ erature into German or French have not been included.

THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY Gerritsz, Cornelis. An Addition to the Sea Journal or Navigation of the Hollanders unto lava [1597], London: lohn Wolfe, 1598; facsimile reprint, The English Experience Series. New York: da Capo, 1968. Houtman, Cornelis de [commander]. The Description o f a Voyage Made by Cer­ tain Ships of Holland into the East-Indies; with their adventures and sue- 184 BIBLIOGRAPHY

cess; . . . who set forth on the second of April 1595 and returned on the fourteenth of August 1597. Original Dutch version attributed to Barend Langenes, 1597. Translated by William Philipp. London: lohn Wolfe, 1598. ______“The Description of a Voyage Made by Certain Ships of Holland into the East Indies.” A Collection o f Voyages and Travel. Edited by Thomas Osborne. Vol. 2. London: 1745. [Linschoten, Jan Huyghen van.] lohn Huighen van Linschoten: His Discours of Voyages into ye Easte and West Indies [1596]. Devided into four bookes. London: lohn Wolfe, 1598. [______] The Voyage of John Huyghen van Linschoten to the East Indies. From the old English translation of 1598. Edited by Arthur C. Burnell and P. A. Tiele, 2 vols. London: Hakluyt Society, 1885. Van Linschoten’s account of the English exploits, originally published in English translation by Richard Hakluyt around 1600, has appeared in several collec­ tions; An English Garner. Edited by Edward Arber. Vol. 3. London: Con­ stable, 1877-1897; An English Garner. Introduction by C. R. Beazley. Vols. 10, 11. Westminster: 1903-1904; English Reprints. Edited by Edward Arber. Vol. 8, number 29. London, 1871; Reprint, New York: AMS, 1966; Principal Navigations, Voyages and Discoveries of the English Nation. Vol. 5. Glasgow: Mac Lehose and Sons, 1904; Hakluyt's Voyages. Introduction by John Masefield. Vol. 5. London: Dent, n.d.; New York: E. P. Dutton and Co., 1907. Veer, Gerrit de. The True and Perfect Description of Three Voyages [1597]. London: 1609. Facsimile reprint, The English Experience Series. New York: da Capo, 1970. _____ . The First [Third] Voyage o f the Dutch and the Zealanders by the North. Edited by John Pinkerton. Vol. 1. London: Longman et al., 1808-1804. _____ . The Three Voyages of William Barents to the Arctic Regions 1594, 1595, 1596. Edited by Charles T. Beke. Vol. 13. London: Hakluyt Society, 1853. Second edition: introduction by Lieutenant Koolemans Beynen. Vol. 54. London: Hakluyt Society, 1853.

THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY Bontekoe, Willem Ysbrandtsz. Memorable Description o f the East-Indian Voy­ age 1618-1625 [1646], Translated by C. B. Bodde Hodgkinson and Pieter Geyl. intr. and notes P. C. Geyl. New York: R. M. McBride and Co., 1929; London: G. Routledge and Sons, 1929. [Pelsaert, Francisco.] “ The Abrolhos Tragedy: The First Complete Translation in English of the Original Dutch Account Published Eighteen Years After the Massacre.” Translated by William Siebenhaar. The Western Mail, De­ cember 1897. (Trans, of De Ongluckige Voyagie by Jan Jansz, 1647). [_____ .] Voyage to Disaster: The Life o f Francisco Pelsaert. Consisting of “The Life and Times of Francisco Pelsaert,” “The Journals,” “Appendix of Documents.” By H. Drake-Brockman. Translation by E. D. Drok. Sydney: August Robertson, 1963. BIBLIOGRAPHY 185 Schouten, Willem. “Australian Navigation discovered by Jacob le Maire . . . 1615, 1616 and 1617 ...” [1619]. The East and West Indian Mirror. Edited by Joris Spilbergen. London: Hakluyt Society, 1867. ______The Relation o f a Wonderfull Voyage Round About the World [1618], Translated by W. Philip. London: Newbery, 1619; facsimile reprint, The English Experience Series. New York: da Capo, 1968.

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY Stavorinus, Johan S. Voyages to the East Indies [1797]. Translated by S. H. Wilcocke. 3 vols. London: G. G. and J. Robinson, 1798; facsimile reprint for the Colonial Historical Society. London: Dawsons, 1969. ______“Account of Java and Batavia [and] Account of Celebes and Amboyna: From the Voyages of Stavorinus.” A General Collection o f the Best and Most Interesting Voyages and Travels. Edited by John Pinkerton. Vol. 5. London: Hurst et al., 1808-1814. (Excerpts of 1798 edition of Stavorinus’s Voyages. Translated by S. H. Wilcocke.)

THE NINETEENTH CENTURY Dekker, Eduard Douwes [Multatuli]. Max Havelaar or the Coffee Auctions of the Dutch Trading Company [I860]. Translated by Baron Alphonse Nahuys. Edinburgh: Edmonston and Douglas, 1868. ______Max Havelaar or the Coffee Sales o f the Netherlands Trading Com­ pany. Translated by W. Siebenhaar. Introduction by D. H. Lawrence. New York and London: A. A. Knopf, 1927. ______Once More Free Labor [1870]. Translated by Nicolaas Steeiink. New York: Exposition Press, [1948]. ______The Stonecutter’s Dream. Translated by Gustav Reuter. Thornhill: The Village Press, 1961. (Excerpt from Max Havelaar, edition limited to 100 copies.) ______Max Havelaar or the Coffee Auctions o f the Dutch Trading Company. Introduction by D. H. Lawrence. Translated, edited, and introduced by Roy Edwards. Leyden: Sythoff; New York, London: House and Maxwell, 1967. Haafner, Jacob. “Travels on Foot through the Island of Ceylon” [1806]. New Voyages and Travels. Vol. 5, number 5. London: Sir Phillips and Co., 1821. Perelaer, Michael T. / Ran Away from the Dutch, or Borneo from South to North [1885]. Translated by Maurice Blok. Adaptation by A. P. Mendes. New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1887. Tuuk, Hermannus van der. A Grammar o f Toba-Batak [1859]. Translated by Jeune Scott-Kemball. The Hague: Nijhoff, 1971.

THE TWENTIETH CENTURY Alberts, Albert. “The Swamp.” Translated by Alex Brotherton. The Literary Review 5 (1961-62), pp. 204-212. ______“The Swamp.” Stories from the Literary Review. Edited by Charles Angoff. Cranbury N.Y.: Association of University Presses, 1969. 186 BIBLIOGRAPHY

_____ . “The Chase.” Delta: Review of Arts, Life and Thought in the Nether­ lands. Autumn 1960, pp. 70-87. (intr: “The Tropical Decor,” by Robert Nieuwenhuys, same Delta nr. pp. 65-69.) Couperus, Louis. The Book o f Small Souls [1901]. (Vol. 1 of four, known CDllec- tively as The Books of Small Souls.) Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1914; 2nd ed. 1930; London: Heinemann, 1914. ______The Later Life [1902]. Vol. 2. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mat­ tos. New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1915; London: Heinemann, 1914. ______The Twilight o f the Souls [1902]. Vol. 3. Translated by Alexander Teix­ eira de Mattos. New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1917; London: Heine- mann, 1914. ______Dr. Adriaan [1903]. Vol. 4. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mat­ tos. New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1918. ______The Hidden Force. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. Lon­ don: Cape, 1922; New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1922. ______Eastward [1924]. Translated by J. Menzies-Wilson and C. C. Crispin. London: Hurst and Blackett, 1924; New York: George Doran, 1924. ______Nippon [1923]. Translated by John de la Valette. London: Hurst and Blackett, 1926. New York: George Doran, 1936. ______The Book[s] of Small Souls [1914-1918]. Translated by Alexander Teix­ eira de Mattos. New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1942. ______Old People and the Things that Pass [1906]. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1918; London: Thornton, Butterworth, 1919; 2nd ed., 1924. Dermoüt, Maria. The Ten Thousand Things. [1955]. Translated by Hans Ko- ningsberger. London: Seeker and Warburg, 1958; New York: Simon and Schuster, 1958 and 1959. ______Yesterday [1951]. Translated by Hans Koningsberger. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1959. _____ . Days Before Yesterday. Translated by Hans Koningsberger. London: Seeker and Warburg, 1960. ______“ The Copper Dancer” [1956]. Harper’s Bazaar, April 1961, p. 154. ______“The Copper Dancer.” The Uncommon Reader. New York: Avon Books, 1965. ______“ The Sirens” [1956]. Harper’s Bazaar, February 1962, p. 82. ______“The Bracelet.” Harper’s Bazaar, November 1962, p. 134. ______“ The South Sea” [1963]. Harper’s Bazaar, January 1965, p. 96. ______“The Shark Fighter.” Harper’s Bazaar, January 1966, pp. 150-151. ______“ Kwan Yin’s Snake” [1963]. Harper’s Bazaar, April 1966, p. 148. ______“ Mary.” Harper’s Bazaar, February 1967, p. 166. ______“The Buddha Ring.” Harper’s Bazaar, January 1968, p. 76. Fabricius, Johan W. Java Ho! The Adventures of Four Boys Amid Fire, Storm, and Shipwreck [1924]. Translated by M. C. Darnton. London: Methuen and Co., [1933]; New York: Coward, McCann, 1931. BIBLIOGRAPHY 187

_____ A Malayan Tragedy. Translated by F. and A. Renier. London: Heine- mann, 1942. _____ Night over Java [1946]. London: Heinemann, 1944; New York: Green­ berg, 1946. _____ Java Revisited [1947]. Translated by M. S. Stephens. London: Heine- mann, 1947. _____ The Great Ordeal. Translated by Roy Edwards. London: Heinemann, 1952. _____ A Dutchman at Large: Memoirs [1951]. Translated by Roy Edwards. London: Heinemann, 1952. _____ Girdle o f Emerald [1953]. Translated by Roy Edwards. London: Heine- mann, 1955. _____ Setuwo the Tiger [1956]. Translated by Roy Edwards. London: Heine- mann, 1957. Friedericy, Herman J. “ The Heron Dance.” Translated by N. C. Clegg. The Literary Review 5 (1961-62), pp. 227-231. Kartini, Raden A. Letters of a Javanese Princess [1911]. Translated by Agnes L. Symmers. Edited by Hildred Geertz. Preface by Louis Couperus. London: Duckworth, [1921]. _____ Letters o f a Javanese Princess. Foreword by Eleonar Roosevelt. New York: Norton, 1964. Perron, Charles Edgar du. “The Indonesian Child Grows up Quickly” [1935]. Harvest o f the Lowlands. Edited by J. Greshoff. New York: Querido, 1945. (fragment of Het Land van Herkomst). Schendel, Arthur van. “ The ‘Johanna Maria’ ” [1930]. Translated by Brian W. Downs. Introduction by Sir Arthur Quiller Couch. New York: Longmans, Green and Co., 1935; London: Cape, 1935. Suroto, Raden Mas. Evolution o f the Inhabitants o f Java. Presented by the Royal Packet Navigation Co. Amsterdam, n.d. Szekely, Ladislao. Tropic Fever: The Adventures o f a Planter in Sumatra [1935]. Translated by Marion Saunders. New York: Harper Bros., 1937; London: Harnisch Hamilton, 1939. Szekely-Lulofs, Madelon. Rubber [1931]. Translated by G. J. Renier and Irene Clephane. London: Cassell, 1933. _____ White Money: A Novel o f the East-Indies. New York: The Century Co., 1933. (Same translation under a different title.) _____ . The Other World [1934]. Translated by G. J. Renier and Irene Clephane. New York: The Viking Press, 1935. _____ The Wealthy Beggar. London: Cassell, 1936. (Same translation under a different title.) _____ Coolie [1932]. Translated by G. J. Renier and Irene Clephane. New York: The Viking Press, 1936; London: Cassell, 1936, 1937. Voorhoeve, Rudolf. Tilio, a Boy of Papua [1934]. Translated by Hiida van Stockum. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1937. _____ Harimau [1939], Translated by Jan Fabricius. London: Elek Books, 1957. 188 BIBLIOGRAPHY

Willigen-Vuyk, E. de [Beb Vuyk]. “All Our Yesterdays.” Translated by Estelle Debrot. The Literary Review 5 (1961-62), pp. 220-226. ______“ All Our Yesterdays.” Modern Stories from Many Lands. New York: Manylands Books, 1963 (rpt. in progress). ______“ Way Baroe” [1947]. Translated by Jo Mayo. Harvest of the Lowlands. Edited by J. Greshoff. New York: Querido, 1945. Wit, Augusta de. Java Facts and Fancies. Original in English. London: Chap­ man and Hall, 1905; The Hague: W. P. van Stockum, 1912. ______Island India [1918-1920]. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1923; London: Milford, 1923. Cornelia Niekus Moore received her Ph.D. from Indiana University. She is presently an assistant professor in the Department of European Lan­ guages and Literature at the University of Hawaii at Manoa, where she teaches Dutch and German.