MAX HAVELAAR
OR THE COFFEE AUCTIONS OF
THE DUTCH TRADING COMPANY.
BY
Multatuli.
Translated from the Original Manuscript by
BARON ALPHONSE NAHUIJS.
EDINBURGH
EDMONSTON & DOUGLAS
1868.
PREFACE.
Max Havelaar was published a few years ago, and caused such a sensation
in Holland as was never before experienced in that country. The author
wrote it under the pseudonym of Multatuli, but his real name, Eduard
Douwes Dekker, formerly Assistant Resident of the Dutch Government in
Java, at once became known. Full of fire, and overflowing with
enthusiasm, the author presented it to his countrymen in the form of a
novel, —a book wherein he made them acquainted with the incredible
extortions and tyranny of which the natives of the Dutch Indies, “that
magnificent empire of Insulind, which winds about the equator like a
garland of emeralds,” are the victims, and how he tried in vain, while
still in the service of the Government, to put an end to the cruel
oppressions that happen every day in those countries. Though some
considered his book to be merely an interesting and captivating novel,
the author maintained that it contained nothing but facts. He boldly
asked the Dutch Government to prove the substance of his book to be
false, but its truth has never been disputed. At the International
Congress for the promotion of Social Sciences at Amsterdam, in 1863, he
challenged his countrymen to refute him, but there was no champion to
accept the challenge. In short, Mr. Douwes Dekker, who had been a
functionary in the service of the Dutch Government for the space of
seventeen years, rather understated than overstated the truth. Not a
single fact was ever contested in Holland, and he is still ready to
prove his statements. [1] In the Dutch Parliament nobody answered a
single word, but Mr. Van Twist, ex-Governor-General of the Dutch
Indies, who, on being appealed to by the Baron Van Hoevell, said that
he could perhaps refute Max Havelaar, but that it was not his interest
to do so.
The book proves that what was formerly written in Uncle Tom’s Cabin of
the cruelties perpetrated upon the slaves in America, is nothing in
comparison to what happens every day in the Dutch Indies.
“Max Havelaar” is the name under which the author chooses to describe
his experiences in the East; in the first chapters of the book he has
just returned from India, and he meets an old school-companion, at that
time a coffee-broker, a Mr. Drystubble. This Mr. Drystubble is very
rich, and the author being just then very poor, the latter asks his old
school-fellow to be security for the publishing of his book. At first
Mr. Drystubble will not hear of this, but afterwards, when he perceives
that it will be of some advantage to himself, he consents. Drystubble
is a very characteristic person, knowing nothing beyond his trade, a
great egotist, and is represented by the author with true wit and
humour, in order to show the extreme contrast between himself and ...
some of his countrymen, whom he may perhaps have met with since his
return from Java. At that time the author wears a plaid or shawl, and
Mr. Drystubble therefore speaks always of him as Mr. Shawlman. A few
months after the publication of Max Havelaar, one of the most eminent
members of the Dutch Parliament avowed that this book had struck the
whole country with horror. In vain the Dutch tried to make a party
question of it. The author openly declared that he belonged neither to
the Liberal nor to the Conservative party; but that he placed himself
under the banner of RIGHT, EQUITY, and HUMANITY. As soon, however, as
he professed to be a mere friend of mankind, without bias to any
political party, the official world avoided even to pronounce his name,
and affected to have forgotten the man whose conduct had before been
considered as a reproof, and whose influence menaced danger to people
in place. Instead of accepting the challenge, it seemed more worthy to
fight the battle out with the vile weapons of abuse and slander. Of
course the reader will not regard Mr. Drystubble’s nonsensical and
hypocritical observations as the sentiments of our author. It is
precisely Multatuli’s intention to make Drystubble odious, and his
philosophy absurd, though sometimes he speaks truth and
common-sense—for he is a type of a part of the Dutch nation.
So much for the tendency of the book. Need I say that it will do honour
to the literature of any language, and that it may be read as well for
profit as for amusement? But Max Havelaar is immortal, not because of
literary art or talent, but because of the cause he advocates. I think
that every one who admires Harriet Beecher Stowe’s immortal pleading,
ought likewise to read Multatuli’s accusation. I compare Max Havelaar
to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, but I do not compare Multatuli, the champion and
the martyr of humanity and justice, to Mrs. Stowe, for I am not aware
that that lady, with all her merits, has sacrificed future fortune, and
all that makes life agreeable, for a principle—for right and equity—as
has been done by Eduard Douwes Dekker. Max Havelaar bears evidence of
having been written by a genius of that order which only appears at
long intervals in the world’s history. His mind embraces in its
intellectual compass all mankind, regardless of race or caste. By the
diffusion of this book a bond will be formed embracing all lovers of
genius and justice throughout the world.
It was the intention of the author to have had his work translated into
all the European languages. Unfortunately he unwittingly disposed of
the property of his own book, and if it had not thus been “legally”
withheld from the people of Holland, it is probable that I should not
have been its translator; but I have been constrained to make known as
widely as possible the sad truth regarding the mal-administration of
laws in themselves good, by the Dutch Government in her Indian
dependencies. To the British nation the facts will be new, as the books
published in England on Dutch India are few in number, superficial in
character, and give no idea of the condition of the native population.
I cannot judge of English politics or about British India, but however
perfect British rule may be, it cannot be so perfect that it has
nothing more to learn.
ALPHONSE JOHAN BERNARD HORSTMAR NAHUIJS.
The Hague,
January 17, 1868.
TO
Everdine Huberte, Baroness Wijnbergen.
“J’ai souvent entendu plaindre les femmes de poëte, et sans doute, pour
tenir dignement dans la vie ce difficile emploi, aucune qualité n’est
de trop. Le plus rare ensemble de mérites n’est que le strict
nécessaire, et ne suffit même pas toujours au commun bonheur. Voir sans
cesse la muse en tiers dans vos plus familiers entretiens,—recueillir
dans ses bras et soigner ce poëte qui est votre mari, quand il vous
revient meurtri par les déceptions de sa tâche;—ou bien le voir
s’envoler à la poursuite de sa chimère... voilà l’ordinaire de
l’existence pour une femme de poëte. Oui, mais aussi il y a le chapître
des compensations, l’heure des lauriers qu’il a gagnés à la sueur de
son génie, et qu’il dépose pieusement aux pieds de la femme
légitimement aimée, aux genoux de l’Antigone qui sert de guide en ce
monde à cet ‘aveugle errant;’—
“Car, ne vous-y-trompez-pas: presque tous les petit-fils d’Homère sont
plus ou moins aveugles à leur façon;—ils voient ce que nous ne voyons
pas; leurs regards pénètrent plus haut et plus au fond que les nôtres;
mais ils ne savent pas voir droit devant eux leur petit bonhomme de
chemin, et il seraient capables de trébucher et de se casser le nez sur
le moindre caillou, s’il leur fallait cheminer sans soutien, dans ces
vallées de prose où demeure la vie.”
(Henry de Pène.)
OFFICER. My Lord, this is the man who murdered Betsy.
JUDGE. He must hang for it. How did he do it?
OFFICER. He cut up her body in little pieces, and salted them.
JUDGE. He is a great criminal. He must hang for it.
LOTHARIO. My Lord, I did not murder Betsy: I fed and clothed and
cherished her. I can call witnesses who will prove me to be a good man,
and no murderer.
JUDGE. You must hang. You blacken your crime by your self-sufficiency.
It ill becomes one who ... is accused of anything to set up for a good
man.
LOTHARIO. But, my Lord, ... there are witnesses to prove it; and as I
am now accused of murder....
JUDGE. You must hang for it. You cut up Betsy—you salted the pieces—and
you are satisfied with your conduct,—three capital counts——who are you,
my good woman?
WOMAN. I am Betsy.
LOTHARIO. Thank God! You see, my Lord, that I did not murder her.
JUDGE. Humph!——ay——what!——What about the salting?
BETSY. No, my Lord, he did not salt me:——on the contrary, he did many
things for me ... he is a worthy man!
LOTHARIO. You hear, my Lord, she says I am an honest man.
JUDGE. Humph!——the third count remains. Officer, remove the prisoner,
he must hang for it; he is guilty of self-conceit.
(Unpublished Play.)
CHAPTER I.
I am a coffee-broker, and live at No. 37 Laurier Canal, Amsterdam. I am
not accustomed to write novels or works of that kind; therefore it took
me a long time before I could resolve to order a few extra quires of
paper and begin this book, which you, dear reader, have just taken in
hand, and which you must finish, whether you are a coffee-broker or
anything else. Not only that I never wrote anything that resembled a
novel, but I even do not like to read such things, because I am a man
of business. For many years I have asked myself what is the use of such
works, and I am astonished at the impudence with which many a poet or
novelist dares to tell you stories which never happened, and often
never could have happened at all. If I in my position,—I am a
coffee-broker, and live at No. 37 Laurier Canal,—made a statement to a
Principal, that is, a person who sells coffee, in which I related only
a small part of the lies which form the greater part of poems and
novels, he would immediately cease to employ me, and go over to
Busselinck and Waterman, who are likewise coffee-brokers,—but you need
not know their address. Therefore I take good care not to write any
novels, nor to advance any false statements. I have always remarked
that persons who do so are often badly off. I am forty-three years of
age, I have visited the Exchange for the last twenty years, and,
therefore, I can come forward whenever you are in want of a person of
experience. How many firms do I know which have been utterly ruined!
And generally, when looking for the causes of their failure, it
appeared to me that they must be attributed to the wrong direction
which most of them followed in the beginning.
My maxims are, and will always be, Truth and Common-sense; making, of
course, an exception with regard to the Holy Scriptures. The origin of
this fault may be traced to our children’s poet, Van Alphen, [2] in his
very first line, about “dear little babies.” What the deuce could make
that old gentleman declare himself to be an adorer of my little sister
Gertrude, who had weak eyes, or of my brother Gerard, who always played
with his nose? and yet, he says, “that he sang those poems inspired by
love.” I often thought when a child, “My dear fellow, I should like to
meet you once, and if you refused me the marbles which I should ask you
for, or the initials of my name in chocolate—my name is Batavus—then I
should believe you to be a liar.” But I never saw Van Alphen; he was
dead, I think, when he told us that my father was my best friend, and
that my little dog was so grateful (we never kept any dogs, they are so
very dirty); although I was much fonder of little Paul Winser, who
lived near us in Batavier Street.
All lies! And yet in this manner education goes on:—“The new little
sister came from the vegetable-woman in a big cabbage.” “All Dutchmen
are brave and generous.” “The Romans were glad that the Batavians
allowed them to live.” “The Bey of Tunis got a colic when he heard the
Dutch colours flapping.” “The Duke of Alva was a monster.” [3] “The
ebb-tide (in 1672, I believe) lasted a little longer than usual, only
to protect the Netherlands.” Nonsense! Holland has remained Holland
because our forefathers knew how to manage their affairs, and because
they had the true religion—that is the reason. And then came other
lies. “A girl is an angel.” Whoever first discovered that never had any
sisters. Love is a bliss; you fly with some dear object or other to the
end of the earth. The earth has no end, and such love is all nonsense.
Nobody can say that I do not live on good terms with my wife,—she is a
daughter of Last and Co., coffee-brokers,—nobody can find fault with
our marriage. I am a member of the fashionable “Artis” club, [4] and
she has an Indian shawl which cost £7, 13s. 4d., but yet we never
indulged in such a foolish love as would have urged us to fly to the
extremities of the earth. When we married, we made an excursion to the
Hague. She there bought some flannel, of which I still wear shirts; and
further our love has never driven us. So, I say, it is all nonsense and
lies! And should my marriage now be less happy than that of those
persons who out of pure love become consumptive, or tear the hair out
of their heads? Or do you think that my household is less orderly than
it would be, if seventeen years ago I had promised my bride in verse
that I should marry her? Stuff and nonsense! yet I could have done such
a thing as well as any one else; for the making of verses is a
profession certainly less difficult than ivory-turning, otherwise how
could bon-bons with mottoes be so cheap? Only compare their price with
that of two billiard-balls. I have no objection to verses. If you like
to put the words into a line, very well; but do not say anything beyond
the truth; thus,—
“The clock strikes four
And it rains no more.”
I will not say anything against that, if it is indeed four o’clock, and
it has really stopped raining. But if it is a quarter to three, then I,
who do not put my words in verse, can say, “It is a quarter to three,
and it has stopped raining.” But the rhymer, because it rains “no
more,” is bound to say “four.” Either the time or the weather must be
changed, and a lie is the result. And it is not rhyming alone that
allures young people to untruth. Go to the theatre, and listen to all
the lies they tell you. The hero of the piece is saved from being
drowned by a person who is on the point of becoming a bankrupt. Then,
as we are told, he gives his preserver half his fortune,—a statement
that cannot be true, as I proceed to show. When lately my hat was blown
by the wind into the Prinsen Canal, I gave the man twopence who brought
it back to me, and he was satisfied. I know very well that I ought to
have given a little more if he had saved my own self from drowning, but
certainly not half my fortune; for it is evident that in such a case,
falling twice into the water would quite ruin me. The worst of these
scenes on the stage is, that people become so much accustomed to
untruths, that they get into the habit of admiring and applauding them.
I should like to throw all such applauders into the water, to see how
many of them really meant that applause. I, who love truth, hereby give
notice, that I won’t pay half my fortune for being fished up. He who is
not satisfied with less, need not touch me. On Sundays only I should
give a little more, on account of my gold chain and best coat. Yes!
many persons become corrupted by the stage, much more than by novels,
for seeing is believing. With tinsel and lace cut out in paper, all
looks so very attractive, that is to say, for children and men who are
not accustomed to business. And even when they want to represent
poverty, their representation is generally a lie. A girl whose father
has become a bankrupt, works to support her family. Very well; you see
her on the stage, sewing, knitting, or embroidering. Now, do count the
stitches which she makes during a whole act. She talks, she sighs, she
runs to the window, she does everything except work. Surely the family
that can live by such work needs very little. This girl is, of course,
the heroine. She has pushed some seducers down-stairs, and cries
continually, “Oh, mother, mother!” and thus she represents Virtue. A
nice virtue indeed, which takes a year in making a pair of stockings!
Does not all this serve to give you false ideas of virtue, and of
“labour for daily bread?” All folly and lies! Then her first lover, who
was formerly a copying-clerk, but is now immensely rich, returns
suddenly, and marries her. Lies again. He who has money does not marry
a bankrupt’s daughter. You think that such a scene will do on the
stage, as an exceptional case, but the audience will mistake the
exception for the rule, and thus become demoralized by accustoming
themselves to applaud on the stage, that which in the world every
respectable broker or merchant considers to be ridiculous madness. When
I was married, we were thirteen of us at the office of my
father-in-law, Last and Co.,—and a good deal of business was done
there, I can assure you. And now for more lies on the stage:—When the
hero walks away in a stiff, stage-like manner, to serve his native
country, why does the back-door always open of itself?
And then this Virtue rewarded!—oh, oh! I have been these seventeen
years a coffee-broker, at No. 37 Laurier Canal, and I have had a great
deal of experience, but I am always much shocked when I see the dear,
good truth so distorted. Rewarded Virtue, forsooth! just as if virtue
was a trade commodity! It is not so in the world, and it is very good
that it is not so, for where would be the real merit if virtue were
always rewarded? Why then always invent such shameful lies? There is,
for instance, Lucas, the warehouse-porter, who had been in the employ
of Last and Co.’s father,—the firm was then Last and Meyer, but the
Meyers are no longer in it,—he was really an honest man, in my opinion.
Never was a single coffee-bean missing; he went to church very
punctually; and was a teetotaller. When my father-in-law was at his
country seat at Driebergen, this man kept the house, the cash, and
everything. Once the bank paid him seventeen guilders too much, and he
returned them. He is now too old and gouty to work, and therefore
starves, for our large business transactions require young men. Well,
this Lucas has been a very virtuous man—but is he rewarded? Does a
prince give him diamonds, or a fairy nice dinners? Certainly not; he is
poor, and he remains poor, and that must be so. I cannot help him. We
want active young men for our extensive business; but if I could do
anything for him, his merit would be rewarded in an easy life, now that
he is old. Then if all warehouse-porters, and everybody else became
virtuous, all would be rewarded in this world, and there would remain
no special reward for the good people hereafter. But on the stage they
distort everything—turn everything into lies.
I too am virtuous, but do I ask a reward for that? When my affairs go
on well, as they generally do; when my wife and children are healthy,
so that I have nothing to do with doctors; when I can put aside every
year a small sum for old age; when Fred behaves well, that he may be
able to take my place when I retire to my country-seat near
Driebergen,—then I am quite satisfied. But all this is only a natural
consequence of circumstances, and because I attend to my business. I
claim nothing for my virtue; and that I am a virtuous man is evident
from my love for truth, which is second only to my great inclination to
my Faith—I should like to convince you of this, dear reader, because it
is my excuse for writing this book. Another passion equally strong is
my love of business. I am a coffee-broker, at No. 37 Laurier Canal.
Well, reader, this book owes its existence to my inviolable love for
truth, and my zeal for business. I will tell you how all this has
happened. But as I must now leave you for some time, being obliged to
go to the Exchange, I invite you to a second chapter. Pray, take this
with you; it may be of service to you. Look here,—my card,—I am the
“Co.,” since the Meyers went out—old Last is my father-in-law:—
Last & Co.,
Coffee-Brokers,
No. 37 Laurier Canal.