# Max Havelaar (Nahuijs)/Chapter 17

Layout 2
[Continuation of Stern’s composition.]
Saïdjah’s father had a buffalo, with which he ploughed his field. When this buffalo was taken away from him by the district chief at Parang-Koodjang he was very dejected, and did not speak a word for many a day. For the time for ploughing was come, and he had to fear that if the sawah was not worked in time, the opportunity to sow would be lost, and lastly, that there would be no paddy to cut, none to keep in the lombong (store-room) of the house. I have here to tell readers who know Java, but not Bantam, that in that Residency there is personal landed property, which is not the case elsewhere. Saïdjah’s father, then, was very uneasy. He feared that his wife would have no rice, nor Saïdjah himself, who was still a child, nor his little brothers and sisters. And the district chief too would accuse him to the Assistant Resident if he was behind-hand in the payment of his land-taxes, for this is ​punished by the law. Saïdjah’s father then took a kris, which was poosaka from his father. The kris was not very handsome, but there were silver bands round the sheath, and at the end there was a silver plate. He sold this kris to a Chinaman who dwelt in the capital, and came home with twenty-four guilders, for which money he bought another bufllo.
Saïdjah, who was then about seven years old, soon made friends with the new buffalo. It is not without meaning that I say “made friends,” for it is indeed touching to see how the Karbo is attached to the little boy who watches over and feeds him. Of this attachment I shall very soon give an example. The large, strong animal bends its heavy head to the right, to the left, or downwards, just as the pressure of the child’s finger, which he knows and understands, directs.
Such a friendship little Saïdjah had soon been able to make with the new-comer, and it seemed as if the encouraging voice of the child gave still more strength to the heavy shoulders of the strong animal, when it tore open the stiff clay and traced its way in deep sharp furrows.
The buffalo turned willingly, on reaching the end of the field, and did not lose an inch of ground when ploughing backwards the new furrow, which was ever near the old, ​as if the ‘sawah’ was a garden ground raked by a giant. Quite near were the ‘sawahs’ of the father of Adinda (the father of the child that was to marry Saïdjah); and when the little brothers of Adinda came to the limit of their fields just at the same time that the father of Saïdjah was there with his plough, then the children called out merrily to each other, and each praised the strength and the docility of his buffalo. But I believe that the buffalo of Saïdjah was the best of all; perhaps because its master knew better than any one else how to speak to the animal, and buffaloes are very sensible to kind words. Saïdjah was nine and Adinda six, when this buffalo was taken from the father of Saïdjah by the chief of the district of Parang-Koodjang. Saïdjah’s father, who was very poor, thereupon sold to a Chinaman two silver klamboo hooks—‘poosaka’ from the parents of his wife—for eighteen guilders, and for that money bought a new buffalo. But Saïdjah was very dejected. For he knew from Adinda’s little brothers that the other buffalo had been driven to the capital, and he had asked his father if he had not seen the animal when he was there to sell the hooks of the ‘klamboo.’ To this question Saïdjah’s father refused to give an answer. Therefore he feared that his buffalo had been slaughtered, as the other buffaloes which the district chief had taken from the people. And Saïdjah wept much when he thought of this poor buffalo, which he had known ​for such a long time, and he could not eat for many days, for his throat was too narrow when he swallowed. It must be taken into consideration that Saïdjah was a child.
The new buffalo soon got acquainted with Saïdjah, and very soon obtained in the heart of Saïdjah the same place as his predecessor,—alas! too soon; for the wax impressions of the heart are very soon smoothed to make room for other writing. . . . However this may be, the new buffalo was not so strong as the former: true, the old yoke was too large for his neck, but the poor animal was willing, like his predecessor, which had been slaughtered; and though Saïdjah could boast no more of the strength of his buffalo when he met Adinda’s brothers at the boundaries, yet he maintained that no other surpassed his in willingness; and if the furrow was not so straight as before, or if lumps of earth had been turned, but not cut, he willingly made this right as much as he could with his patjol. Moreover, no buffalo had an oeser-oeseran like his. The Penghooloo himself bad said that there was ontong in the course of the hair-whirls on its shoulders. Once when they were in the field, Saïdjah called in vain to his buffalo to make haste. The animal did not move. Saïdjah grew angry at this unusual refractoriness, and could not refrain from scolding. He said “a——— ​s———.” Every one who has been in India will understand me; and he who does not understand me gains by it if I spare him the explanation of a coarse expression.
Yet Saïdjah did not mean anything bad. He only said it because he had often heard it said by others when they were dissatisfied with their buffaloes. But it was useless; his buffalo did not move an inch. He shook his head, as if to throw off the yoke, the breath appeared out of his nostrils, he blew, trembled, there was anguish in his blue eye, and the upper lip was curled upwards, so that the gums were bare. . . .
“Fly! Fly!” Adinda’s brothers cried, “fly, Saïdjah! there is a tiger!”
And they all unyoked the buffaloes, and throwing themselves on their broad backs, galloped away through sawahs, galangans, mud, brushwood, forest, and allang-allang, along fields and roads, and when they tore panting and dripping with perspiration into the village of Badoer, Saïdjah was not with them.
For when he had freed his buffalo from the yoke, and had mounted him as the others had done to fly, an unexpected jump made him lose his seat and fall to the earth. The tiger was very near. . . . Saïdjah’s buffalo, driven on by his own speed, jumped a few paces past the spot where his little master awaited death. But through his speed alone, ​and not of his own will, the animal had gone further than Saïdjah, for scarcely had it conquered the momentum which rules all matter even after the cause has ceased, when it returned, and placing its big body, supported by its big feet, like a roof over the child, fumed its horned head towards the tiger, which bounded forward. . . . but for the last time. The buffalo caught him on his horns, and only lost some flesh, which the tiger took out of his neck, The tiger lay there with his belly torn open, and Saïdjah was saved. Certainly there had been ‘ontong’ in the ‘oeser-oeseran’ of the buffalo.
When this buffalo had also been taken away from Saïidjah’s father and slaughtered. . . . . .
I told you, reader, that my story is monotonous.
When this buffalo was slaughtered, Saïdjah was just twelve, and Adinda was wearing ‘sarongs,’ and making figures on them. She had already learned to express thoughts in melancholy drawings on her tissue, for she had seen Saïdjah very sad. And Saïdjah’s father was also sad, but his mother still more so; for she had cured the wound, in the neck of the faithful animal which had brought her child home unhurt, after having thought, by the news of Adinda’s brothers, that it had been taken away by the tiger. As often as she saw this wound, she thought how far the claws of the tiger, which had entered ​so deeply into the coarse flesh of the buffalo, would have penetrated into the tender body of her child; and every time she put fresh dressings on the wound, she caressed the buffalo, and spoke kindly to him, that the good faithful animal might know how grateful a mother is.
Afterwards she hoped that the buffalo understood her, for then he must have understood why she wept when, he was taken away to be slaughtered, and he would have known that it was not the mother of Saïdjah who caused him to be slaughtered. Some days afterwards Saïdjah’s father fled out of the country; for he was much afraid of being punished for not paying his land-taxes, and he had not another heirloom to sell, that he might buy a new buffalo, because his parents had always lived in Parang-Koodjang, and had therefore left him but few things. The parents of his wife too lived in the same district. However, he went on for some years after the loss of his last buffalo, by working with hired animals for ploughing; but that is a very ungrateful labour, and moreover, sad for a person who has had buffaloes of his own.
Saïdjah’s mother died of grief, and then it was that his father, in a moment of dejection, fled from Bantam, in order to endeavour to get labour in the Buitenzorg districts.
But he was punished with stripes, because he had left Lebak without a passport, and was brought back by the police to Badoer. There he was put in prison, because ​he was supposed to be mad, which I can readily believe, and because it was feared that he would run amuck in a moment of mata-glap. But he was not long in prison, for he died soon afterwards. What became of the brothers and sisters of Saïdjah I do not know. The house in which they lived at Badoer was empty for some time, and soon fell down; for it was only built of bamboo, and covered with atap. A little dust and dirt covered the place where there had been much suffering. There are many such places in Lebak. Saïdjah was already fifteen years of age, when his father set out for Buitenzorg; and he did not accompany him thither, because he had other plans in view. He had been told that there were at Batavia many gentlemen, who drove in bendies, and that it would be easy for him to get a post as bendie-boy, for which generally a young person is chosen, so as not to disturb the equilibrium of the two-wheeled carriage by too much weight behind. He would, they told him, gain much in that way if he behaved well,—perhaps he would be able to spare in three years money enough to buy two buffaloes. This was a smiling prospect for him. With the proud step of one who has conceived a grand idea, he, ​after his father’s flight, entered Adinda’s house, and communicated to her his plan.
“Think of it,” said he, “when I come back we shall be old enough to marry, and shall possess two buffaloes!”
“Very well, Saïdjah, I will gladly marry you when you return. I will spin and weave sarongs and slendangs, and be very diligent all the time.”
“Oh, I believe you, Adinda, but. . . if I find you married?”
“Saïdjah, you know very well that I shall marry nobody but you; my father promised me to your father.”
“And you yourself?”
“I shall marry you, you may be sure of that.”
“When I come back, I will call from afar off.”
“Who shall hear it, if we are stamping rice in the village?”
“That is true, . . . but, Adinda, . . . oh yes, this is better, wait for me under the djati wood, under the ketapan where you gave me the melatti.”
“But, Saïdjah, how can I know when I am to go to the ketapan?”
​Saïdjah considered and said:—
“Count the moons; I shall stay away three times twelve moons, . . . this moon not included. . . . See, Adinda, at every new moon, cut a notch in your rice-block. When you have cut three times twelve lines, I will be under the Ketapan the next day, . . . do you promise to be there?”
“Yes, Saïdjah, I will be there under the ketapan, near the djati-wood, when you come back.
Hereupon Saïdjah tore a piece off his blue turban, which was very much worn, and gave the piece of linen to Adinda to keep it as a pledge; and then he left her and Badoer. He walked many days. He passed Rankas-Betong, which was not then the capital of Lebak, and Warong-Goonoong, where was the house of the Assistant Resident, and the following day saw Pamarangang, which lies as in a garden. The next day he arrived at Serang, and was astonished at the magnificence and size of the place, and the number of stone houses covered with red tiles. Saïdjah had never before seen such a thing. He remained there a day, because he was tired; but, during the night, in the coolness, he went further, and the following day, before the shadow had descended to his lips, though he wore the large toodong which his father had left him, he arrived at Tangerang.
At Tangerang he bathed in the river near the passage, and rested in the house of an acquaintance of his father’s, ​who showed him how to make straw-hats like those that come from Manilla. He stayed there a day to learn that; because he thought to be able to get something by that afterwards, if he should perhaps not succeed at Batavia. The following day towards the evening when it was cool he thanked his host very much, and went on, As soon as it was quite dark, when nobody could see it, he brought forth the leaf in which he kept the ‘melatti’ which Adinda had given him under the ‘Ketapan’ tree, for he was sad because he should not see her for so long a time. The first day, and the second day likewise, he had not felt so much how lonely he was, because his soul was quite captivated by the grand idea of gaining money enough to buy two buffaloes, and his father had never possessed more than one; and his thoughts were too much concentrated in the hope of seeing Adinda again, to make room for much grief at his leave-taking. He took that leave in anxious hope, and mingled the memory of it in his thoughts, with the prospect of again seeing Adinda at last under the ketapan. For this prospect so occupied his heart that he, on leaving Badoer, and passing that tree, felt something like joy, as if the thirty-six moons were already past that separated him from that moment. It had appeared to him as if he had only to turn round, as if on his return from the journey, to see Adinda waiting for him under the tree. But the further he went away from Badoer, the more attention he paid to the duration of one ​day, the longer he thought the period of the thirty-six moons before him. There was something in his soul which made him walk less quickly—he felt affliction in his knees, and though it was not dejection that overcame him, yet it was mournfulness, which is not far from it. He thought of returning;—but what would Adinda think of so little heart?
Therefore he walked on, though less rapidly than the first day. He had the ‘melatti’ in his hand, and often pressed it to his breast. He had become much older during the last three days, and he no longer understood how he had lived so calmly before, when Adinda was so near him, and he could see her as often as he liked. But now he could not be calm, when he expected that he should see her again by and by. Nor did he understand why he after having taken leave had not returned once more to look at her again. And he even remembered how a short time ago he had quarrelled with her about the cord which she had made for the lalayang of her brother, and which had broken because there was a defect in her work by which a wager had been lost against the children of Tjipoeroet. “How was it possible,” he thought, “to have been angry about that with Adinda? For if there was a defect in the cord, and if the wager of Badoer against ​Tjipoeroet had been lost in consequence, and not by the piece of glass which little Djamien had thrown while hiding himself behind the pagger, ought I then to have been so rough to her, and called her by unseemly names? What if I die at Batavia without having asked her pardon for such harshness? Will it not make me appear as if I were a bad man, who scolds a girl? And when it is heard that I have died in a foreign country, will not every one at Badoer say, ‘It is good that Saïdjah died; for he had an insolent mouth against Adinda?’ ”
Thus his thoughts took a course which differed much from their former buoyancy, and involuntarily were uttered, first in half words and softly, soon in a monologue, and at last in the melancholy song, of which a translation follows. My first intention was to have recourse to measure and rhyme in this translation: but, like Havelaar, I thought it better to leave it without the corset.
Saïdjah arrived at Batavia. He begged a gentleman to take him into his service, which this gentleman did, ​because he did not understand Saïdjah’s language; for they like to have servants at Batavia who do not speak Malay, and are, therefore, not so corrupted as others, who have been longer in connexion with Europeans. Saïdjah soon learned Malay, but behaved well; for he always thought of the two buffaloes which he should buy, and of Adinda. He became tall and strong, because he ate every day, what could not always be had at Badoer. He was liked in the stable, and would certainly not have been rejected, if he had asked the hand of the coachman’s daughter. His master even liked Saïdjah so much that he soon promoted him to be an indoor servant, increased his wages, and continually made him presents, to show that he was well pleased with his services: Saïdjah’s mistress had read Sue’s novel, which for a short time was so popular: she always thought of Prince Djalma when she saw Saïdjah, and the young girls, too, understood better than before how the Javanese painter, Radeen Saleh, had met with such great success at Paris.
But they thought Saïdjah ungrateful, when he, after almost three years of service, asked for his dismissal, and a certificate that he had always behaved well. This could not be refused, and Saïdjah went on his journey with a joyful heart.
He passed Pisang, where Havelaar once lived many years ago. But Saïdjah did not know this, . . . and even ​if he had known it, he had something else im his soul which occupied him. . . . He counted the treasures which he was carrying home. In a roll of bamboo he had his passport and a certificate of good conduct. In a case, which was fastened to a leathern girdle, something heavy seemed to sling continually against his shoulder, but he liked to feel that. . . . And no wonder! . . . this contained thirty piastres, enough to buy three buffaloes! What would Adinda say? And this was not all. On his back could be seen the silver-covered sheath of the kris, which he wore in the girdle. The hilt was certainly very fine, for he had wound it round with a silk wrapper. And he had still more treasures! In the folds of the kahin round his loins, he kept a belt of silver links, with gold ikat-pendieng. It is true that the belt was short, but she was so slender. . . . Adinda!
And suspended by a cord round his neck, under his baadjoe, he wore a small silk bag, in which were some withered leaves of the ‘melatti.’
Was it a wonder that he stopped no longer at Sangerang than was necessary to visit the acquaintances of his father who made such fine straw hats? Was it a wonder ​that he said little to the girls on his road, who asked him where he came from, and where he was going—the common salutation in those regions? Was it a wonder that he no longer thought Serang so beautiful, he who had learnt to know Batavia? That he hid himself no more behind the ‘pagger’ as he did three years ago, when he saw the Resident riding out; for he had seen the much grander lord, who lives at Buitenzorg, and who is the grandfather of the Soosoohoonan (Emperor) of Solo? Was it a wonder that he did not pay much attention to the tales of those who went a part of the way with him, and spoke of the news in Bantam-Kidool; how the coffee culture had been quite suspended after much unrewarded labour; how the district chief of Parang-Koodjang had been condemned to fourteen days’ arrest at the house of his father-in-law for highway robbery; how the capital had been removed to Rankas-Betong; how a new Assistant Resident was there, because the other had died some months ago; how this new functionary had spoken at the first Sebah meeting; how for some time nobody had been punished for complaining; how the people hoped that all that had been stolen would be returned or paid for?
No, he had sublime visions before his mind’s eye. He sought for the ‘Ketapan’ tree in the clouds, as he was still too far off to seek it at Badoer. He caught at the air ​which surrounded him, as if he would embrace the form which was to meet him under that tree. He pictured to himself the face of Adinda, her head, her shoulders; he saw the heavy kondeh (chignon), so black and glossy, confined in a net, hanging down her neck; he saw her large eye glistening in dark reflection; the nostrils which she raised so proudly as a child, when he——how was it possible? vexed her, and the corner of her lips, where she preserved a smile; he saw her breast, which would now swell under the kabaai; he saw how well the sarong of her own making fitted her hips, and descending along the thighs in a curve, fell in graceful folds on the small foot.
No; he heard little of what was told him. He heard quite different tones; he heard how Adinda would say “Welcome, Saïdjah! I have thought of you in spinning and weaving, and stamping the rice on the floor, which bears three times twelve lines made by my hand. Here I am under the ‘Ketapan’ the first day of the new moon. Welcome, Saïdjah, I will be your wife.”
That was the music which resounded in his ears, and prevented him from listening to all the news that was told him on the road.
At last he saw the ‘Ketapan,’ or rather he saw a large dark spot, which many stars covered, before his eye. That must be the wood of Djati, near the tree where he should see again Adinda, next morning after sunrise. He ​sought in the dark, and felt many trunks—soon found the well-known roughness on the south side of a tree, and thrust his finger into a hole which Si-Panteh had cut with his parang to exorcise the pontianuk who was the cause of his mother’s toothache, a short time before the birth of Panteh’s little brother. That was the Ketapan he looked for.
Yes, this was indeed the spot where he had looked upon Adinda for the first time with quite a different eye from his other companions in play, because she had for the first time refused to take part in a game which she had played with other children—boys and girls—only a short time before. There she had given him the ‘melatti.’ He sat down at the foot of the tree, and looked at the stars; and when he saw a shooting-star he accepted it as a welcome of his return to Badoer, and he thought whether Adinda would now be asleep, and whether she had rightly cut the moons on her rice floor. It would be such a grief to him if she had omitted a moon, as if thirty-six were not enough! . . . And he wondered whether she had made nice ‘sarongs’ and ‘slendangs?’ And he asked himself, too, who would now be dwelling in her father’s house? And he thought of his youth, and of his mother; and how that buffalo had saved him from the tiger, and he thought of what would have become of Adinda if that buffalo had ​been less faithful! He paid much attention to the sinking of the stars in the west, and as each star disappeared in the horizon, he calculated how much nearer the sun was to his rising in the east, and how much nearer he himself was to seeing Adinda. For she would certainly come at the first beam——yes, at daybreak she would be there, . . . Ah! Why had not she already come the day before?
It pained him, that she had not anticipated the supreme moment which had lighted up his soul for three years with inexpressible brightness; and, unjust as he was in the selfishness of his love, it appeared to him that Adinda ought to have been there waiting for him, who complained before the time appointed, that he had to wait for her.
And he complained unjustly, for neither had the sun risen, nor had the eye of day cast a glance on the plain. The stars, it is true, were growing pale up there! ashamed as they were of the approaching end of their rule; strange colours were flowing over the tops of the mountains, which appeared darker as they contrasted sharply with places more brightly illuminated; here and there flowed something glowing in the east—arrows of gold and of fire that were shot hither and thither, parallel to the horizon;—but they disappeared again, and seemed to fall down behind the impenetrable curtain, which hid the day from the eyes of Saïdjah. Yet it grew lighter and lighter around him—he now saw the landscape, and could ​already distinguish a part of the Klappa-wood behind which Badoer lay:—there Adinda slept.
No! surely she did not sleep; how could she sleep? . . Did she not know that Saïdjah would be awaiting her? She had not slept the whole night certainly; the night police of the village had knocked at her door to ask, why the pelitat (Javanese lamp) continued burning in her cottage; and with a sweet laugh she had said, that a vow kept her awake to weave the ‘slendang,’ in which she was occupied, and which must be ready before the first day of the new moon.
Or she had passed the night in darkness, sitting on the rice floor and counting with her eager finger, that indeed thirty-six deep lines were cut near each other. And she had amused herself with an imaginary fright as to whether she had miscalculated, perhaps had counted one less, to enjoy again and again, and every time, the delicious assurance, that without fail three times twelve moons had passed since Saïdjah saw her for the last time.
And now that it was becoming light, she too would be exerting herself with useless trouble, to bend her looks over the horizon to meet the sun, the lazy sun, that stayed away. . . . stayed away. . . .
There came a line of bluish-red, which touched the clouds and made the edges light and glowing;—and it began to lighten, and again arrows of fire shot through the atmosphere; but this time they did not disappear, ​they seized upon the dark ground, and communicated their blaze in larger and larger circles, meeting, crossing, unrolling, turning, wandering, and uniting in patches of fire and lightnings of golden lustre on the azure ground. . . there was red, and blue, and silver, and purple, and yellow, and gold, in all this. . . oh God! that was the daybreak, that was seeing Adinda again!
Saïdjah had not learnt to pray, and it would have been a pity to teach him; for a more holy prayer, more fervent thanksgiving than was in the mute rapture of his soul, could not be conceived in human language. He would not go to Badoer—to see Adinda in reality seeming to him less pleasurable than the expectation of seeing her again. He sat down at the foot of the ‘Ketapan,’ and his eyes wandered over the scenery. Nature smiled at him, and seemed to welcome him as a mother welcoming the return of her child, and as she pictures her joy by voluntary remembrance of past grief, when showing what she has preserved as a keepsake during his absence. So Saïdjah was delighted to see again so many spots that were witnesses of his short life. But his eyes or his thoughts might wander as they pleased, yet his looks and longings always reverted to the path which leads from Badoer to the Ketapan tree. All that his senses could observe was called Adinda. . . . He saw the abyss to the left, where the earth is so yellow, where once a young buffalo sank down into the depth,—they had descended with strong ​rattan cords, and Adinda’s father had been the bravest. Oh, how she clapped her hands, Adinda! And there, further on, on the other side, where the wood of cocoa-trees waved over the cottages of the village, there somewhere, Si-Oenah had fallen out of a tree and died. How his mother cried, “because Si-Oenah was still such a little one,” she lamented, . . . as if she would have been less grieved if Si-Oenah had been taller. But he was small, that is true, for he was smaller and more fragile than Adinda. . . . Nobody walked upon the little road which leads from Badoer to the tree. By and by she would come. . . it was yet very early.
Saïdjah saw a badjing (squirrel) spring with playful nimbleness up the trunk of a cocoa-tree. The graceful animal—the terror of the proprietor of the tree, but still lovely in form and movement—ran untiringly up and down. Saïdjah saw it, and forced himself to stay and look at it, because this calmed his thoughts after their heavy labour since sunrise—rest after the fatiguing expectancy. Soon he uttered his impressions in words, and sang what his soul dictated him. I would rather read you his lay in Malay, that Italian language of the East:—
“See, how the ‘badjing’ looks for his means of living On the Klappa-tree. He ascends, descends, wantons right and left, He turns (round the tree), springs, falls, climbs, and falls again. He has no wings, and yet he is as quick as a bird. Much happiness, my ‘badjing,’—I give you hail! You will surely find the means of living which you seek; But I am sitting alone near the wood of Djati-trees
Waiting for the food of my heart. Long has the small appetite of my badjing been sated; Long has he returned to his little nest; But still my soul And my heart are very sad. . . Adinda!”
Still there was nobody on the path leading from Badoer to the Ketapan. . . .
Saïdjah caught sight of a butterfly which seemed to enjoy itself in the increasing warmth. . . .
“See how the butterfly flutters everywhere: His wings glisten like s flower of many colours; His heart is in love with the blossoms of the kenari, Certainly he looks for his fragrant sweetheart. Much joy, my butterfly,—I give you hail! You will surely find what you seek; But I am sitting alone near the Djati-wood, Waiting for what my heart loves: Long since has the butterfly kissed The kenari blossom which it loves so well; But still my soul And my heart are very sad. . . . Adinda!”
And still there was no one on the path leading from Badoer to the Ketapan.
The sun began to rise high,-there was warmth in the air.
“See how the sun glitters on high, High above the waringi—hill! He feels too warm and wishes to descend, To sleep in the sea as in the arms of a spouse.
Much joy, O sun,—I give you hail! What you seek you will surely find; But I sit alone by the Djati-wood Waiting for rest for my heart. Long the sun will have set And will sleep in the sea, when all is dark, And still my soul And my heart will be very sad. . . Adinda!”
And there was nobody on the road leading from Badoer to the Ketapan.
“When no longer butterflies shall flutter about, When the stars shall no longer glitter, When the melatti shall no longer yields its perfume, When there shall be no longer sad hearts, Nor wild animals in the wood, When the sun shall go wrong And the moon forget the east and the west, if Adinda has not yet arrived, Then an angel with shining wings Will descend on earth, to look for what remained behind: Then my corpse shall be here under the ketapan— My soul is very sad, . . . . Adinda!”
There was nobody on the path leading from Badoer to the Ketapan.
“Then my corpse will be seen by the angel, He will point it out with his finger to his brethren— ‘See, a dead man has been forgotten, His rigid mouth kisses a melatti flower: Come, let us take him up to heaven, Him who has waited for Adinda, till he died, Surely, he may not stay behind alone, Whose heart had the strength to love so much,’ Then my rigid mouth shall open once more. To call Adinda whom my heart loves, I will kiss the melatti once more, Which she gave me. . . . Adinda! . . . . Adinda!”
Oh! she must have fallen asleep towards morning, tired of watching during the night, of watching for many nights:—she had not slept for weeks: so it was!
Should he rise and go to Badoer!—No, that would be doubting her arrival. Should he call that man who was driving his buffalo to the field? . . . . That man was too far off, and moreover, Saïdjah would speak to no one about Adinda, would ask no one after Adinda. . . . He would see her again, he would see her alone, he would see her first. Oh, surely, surely she would soon come!
He would wait, wait. . . .
But if she were ill, or. . . . dead?
Like a wounded stag Saïdjah flew along the path leading from the ‘Ketapan’ to the village where Adinda lived. He saw nothing and heard nothing; and yet he could have heard something, for there were men standing in the road at the entrance of the village, who cried—“Saïdjah, Saïdjah!”
But? . . . . was it his hurry, his eagerness, that prevented him from finding Adinda’s house? He had already rushed fo the end of the road, through the village, and like one mad, he returned and beat his head, because he must have passed her house without seeing it. But again he was at the entrance of the village, and, . . . . Oh God, was it a dream? . . .
​Again he had not found the house of Adinda. Again he flew back and suddenly stood still, seized his head with both his hands to press away the madness that overcame him, and cried aloud—
“Drunk, drunk; I am drunk!”
And the women of Badoer came out of their houses, and saw with sorrow poor Saïdjah standing there, for they knew him, and understood that he was looking for the house of Adinda, and they knew that there was no house of Adinda in the village of Badoer.
For, when the district chief of Parang-Koodjang had taken away Adinda’s father’s buffaloes. . . .
I told you, reader! that my narrative was monotonous.
. . . . Adinda’s mother died of grief, and her baby sister died because she had no mother, and had no one to suckle her. And Adinda’s father, who feared to be punished for not paying his land-taxes. . . .
I know, I know that my tale is monotonous.
. . . . had fled out of the country; he had taken Adinda and her brothers with him. But he had heard how the father of Saïdjah had been punished at Buitenzorg with stripes for leaving Badoer without a passport. And, therefore, Adinda’s father had not gone to Buitenzorg, nor to the Preangan, nor to Bantam. He had gone to Tjilang-kahan, the quarter of Lebak bordering on the sea. There he had concealed himself in the woods, and waited for the arrival of Pa Ento, Pa Lontah, Si Oeniah, Pa Ansive, ​Abdoel Isma, and some others that had been robbed of their buffaloes by the district chief of Parang-Koodjang, and all of whom feared punishment for not paying their land-taxes.
There they had at night taken possession of a fishing-boat, and had gone to sea. They had steered towards the west, and kept the country to the right of them as far as Java Head: then they had steered northwards till they came in sight of Prince’s Island, and sailed round the east coast of that island, and from there to the Lampoons.
Such at least was the way that people told each other in whispers in Lebak, when there was a question of buffalo robbery and unpaid land-taxes.
But Saïdjah did not well understand what they said to him; he did not even quite understand the news of his father’s death. There was a buzzing in his ears, as if a gong had been sounded in his head: he felt the blood throbbing convulsively through the veins of his temples, that threatened to yield under the pressure of such severe distension. He spoke not: and looked about as one stupefied, without seeing what was round and about him; and at last he began to laugh horribly.
An old woman led him to her cottage, and took care of the poor fool.
Soon he laughed less horribly, but still did not speak. But during the night the inhabitants of the hut were ​frightened at his voice, when he sang monotonously: “I do not know where I shall die,” and some inhabitants of Badoer put money together, to bring a sacrifice to the bojajas of the Tji-Udjung for the cure of Saidjah, whom they thought insane. But he was not insane.
For upon a certain night when the moon was very clear, he rose from the baleh-baleh, softly left the house, and sought the place where Adinda had lived. This was not easy, because so many houses had fallen down; but he seemed to recognise the place by the width of the angle which some rays of light formed through the trees, at their meeting in his eye, as the sailor measures by lighthouses and the tops of mountains.
Yes, there it ought to be:—there Adinda had lived!
Stumbling over half-rotten bamboo and pieces of the fallen roof, he made his way to the sanctuary which he sought. And, indeed, he found something of the still standing pagger, near to which the baleh-baleh of Adinda had stood, and even the pin of bamboo was still with its point in that pagger, the pin on which she hung her dress when she went fo bed. . . . .
But the baleh-baleh had fallen down like the house, and ​was almost turned to dust. He took a handful of it, pressed it to his opened lips, and breathed very hard. . . .
The following day he asked the old woman, who had taken care of him, where the rice-floor was which stood in the grounds of Adinda’s house. The woman rejoiced to hear him speak, and ran through the village to seek the floor. When she could point out the new proprietor to Saïdjah, he followed her silently, and being brought to the rice-floor, he counted thereupon thirty-two lines. . . .
Then he gave the woman as many piastres as were required to buy a buffalo, and left Badoer. At Tjilang-kahan, he bought a fishing-boat, and, after having sailed two days, arrived in the Lampoons, where the insurgents were in insurrection against the Dutch rule. He joined a troop of Badoer men, not so much to fight as to seek Adinda; for he had a tender heart, and was more disposed to sorrow than to bitterness.
One day that the insurgents had been beaten, he wandered through a village that had just been taken by the Dutch army, and was therefore in flames. Saïdjah knew that the troop that had been destroyed there consisted for the most part of Badoer men. He wandered like a ghost among the houses, which were not yet burned down, and found the corpse of Adinda’s father with a ​bayonet-wound in the breast. Near him Saïdjah saw the three murdered brothers of Adinda, still boys—children,—and a little further lay the corpse of Adinda, naked, and horribly mutilated. . . .
A small piece of blue linen had penetrated into the gaping wound in the breast, which seemed to have made an end to a long struggle. . . .
Then Saïdjah went to meet some soldiers who were driving, at the point of the bayonet, the surviving insurgents into the fire of the burning houses; he embraced the broad bayonets, pressed forward with all his might, and still repulsed the soldiers, with a last exertion, until their weapons were buried to the sockets in his breast.
A little time afterwards there was much rejoicing at Batavia for the new victory, which so added to the laurels of the Dutch-Indian army. And the Governor wrote that tranquillity had been restored in the Lampoons; the King of Holland, enlightened by his statesmen, again rewarded so much heroism with many orders of knighthood.
And probably thanksgivings mounted to heaven from the hearts of the saints in churches and tabernacles, at the news that “the Lord of hosts” had again fought under the banner of Holland. . . .
I could have done it, for I have documents before me. . . but no!—rather a confession.
Yes! a confession. I do not know whether Saïdjah loved Adinda: I know not whether he went to Badoer, nor whether he died in the Lampoons by Dutch bayonets. I do not know whether his father died by being beaten with rods, because he left Badoer without a passport, I do not know whether Adinda counted the moons by lines in her rice-floor.
All this I do not know.
But I know more than all this. I know, and I can prove it, that there were many Adindas and many Saïdjahs, and that what was fiction in one case, becomes truth generally speaking. I have already said that I can give the names of persons who, like the parents of Saïdjah and Adinda, were driven away by oppression from their ​country. It is not my intention to publish in this book communications such as would be suitable for a tribunal that had to decide on the manner in which the Dutch power is exercised in India,——communications that would have the power to convince him only who had patience enough to read them all, which cannot be expected of the public that looks for recreation in its reading. Therefore instead of barren names of persons and places with the dates, instead of a copy of the list of thefts and extortions which lies before me, I have tried to give a sketch of what can take place in the hearts of the poor people who are robbed of their means of subsistence; or even, I have only made you guess this, as I feared, to be mistaken in painting emotions which I never experienced.
But as regards the main point. . . O that I were summoned to prove what I wrote! O that it were said, “You invented that Saïdjah: he never sang that lay; there never lived an Adinda in Badoer!” O that it were said with the power and the will to do justice as soon as I have proved myself to have been no slanderer!
Is there untruth in the parable of the Good Samaritan, because perhaps a plundered traveller was never taken to the Samaritan’s house? Is there untruth in the parable of the Sower, because it is clear that no husbandman will throw his seed on a rock? or, to descend to more conformity with my book, can the main thing——truth——be ​denied to “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” because there never existed an Evangeline? Shall people say to the author of that immortal protest——immortal, not because of art or talent, but because of tendency and impression——shall they say to her, “You have lied: the slaves are not ill-treated; for there is untruth in your book—it is a novel?” Had not she to give a tale, instead of an enumeration of barren facts, a tale which surrounded those facts, to introduce them into our hearts? Would her book have been read if she had given it the form of a law-suit? Is it her fault or mine, that truth, to find entrance, has so often to borrow the dress of a lie?
And to some who will pretend that I have too much idealized Saïdjah and his love, I ask how they can know this; as only very few Europeans have given themselves the trouble to stoop to observe the emotions of the coffee and sugar machines, called “Natives.” But even if this observation were well founded, whosoever quotes this as a proof against the cardinal tendency of my book, gives me a complete triumph. For that observation when translated is as follows:—“The evil which you combat does not exist, or not in such a high degree, because the native is not like your Saïdjah: there is not in the ill-treatment of the Javanese so much evil as there would be if you had rightly drawn your Saïdjah. The Soondanese do not sing such songs, do not love so, do not feel thus. . . .”
No, Colonial Ministers! no, Governors-General in re​tirement! you have not to prove that. You have to prove that the population is not ill-treated, whether there are sentimental Saïdjahs amongst this population or not; or should you dare to pretend that you may steal buffaloes of men who do not love, who do not sing melancholy songs, who are not sentimental?
On an attack upon literary performances I should defend the exactness of the picture of Saïdjah, but on political grounds I admit immediately all observations on this exactness, to prevent the great question from being removed to a wrong basis. It is quite indifferent to me whether I am thought to be an incapable painter, if it is only admitted that the ill-treatment of the native is excessive; that is the word on the notice of Havelaar’s predecessor which he showed to the Controller Verbrugge:——a notice which lies before me.
But I have other proofs, and that is fortunate. For this predecessor of Havelaar could also have been mistaken.
Alas, if he was mistaken, he has been very severely punished for his mistake!
* ↑ Rice-field.
* ↑ Kris = poniard.
* ↑ Poosaka = inheritance—such a poosaka is kept as a holy keepsake (family heirloom).
* ↑ Karbo = buffalo.
* ↑ Klamboo = curtain.
* ↑ Patjol = spade.
* ↑ Oeser-oeseran, see p. 143.
* ↑ Penghooloo = village priest.
* ↑ Ontong = gain, good luck.
* ↑ Galangan = a trench for irrigating the rice-fields.
* ↑ Allang-allang = jungle.
* ↑ Adinda had already learned to express thoughts on her tissue; she drew sad pictures on her tissue. (See page 77.)
* ↑ Run amuck.—A man who runs amuck kills everybody whom he meets, till he is at last killed himself like a mad dog.
* ↑ Mata-glap—literally = darkened eye—darkness, frenzy. This is the name one gives to the peculiar state wherein a Javanese is, when, because of jealousy, or oppression, he soon becomes so mad as to run amuck.
* ↑ A sort of cane.
* ↑ A sort of carriage.
* ↑ Sarong, see page 77.
* ↑   a is fastened to b, then it is a sarong. If it is open unfastened, then it is called a slendang.
* ↑ Djati = Quercus indicus, Indian Oak.
* ↑ Ketapan—An Indian tree.
* ↑ Melatti—A beautiful flower.
* ↑ See p. 83.
* ↑ Lalagang = kite,—a game wherein they try to cut each other’s cord. Often matches take place between different villages. This is a national game in Java, like cricket in England.
* ↑ Pagger,—an enclosure constructed of bamboo canes.
* ↑ Making salt. This means to do something against the law. Salt is a monopoly of the Government. The Javanese is obliged to buy from the magazines of the Government. Saïdjah in his simplicity is saying something—which the police ought not to hear!
* ↑ Klappa = cocoa-nut.
* ↑ Dessah = Javanese village.
* ↑ Soondanese.
* ↑ Le Juif Errant.
* ↑ 54 guilders.
* ↑ The Javanese is never without his poniard: it belongs to his dress.
* ↑ Kahin = a piece of linen.
* ↑ Ikat-pendieng—pendieng is a girdle of small plates of silver or gold, and ikat-pendieng—the clasp of it {agrafe).
* ↑ Baadjoe = clothes.
* ↑ A superstition of the Javanese.
* ↑ Indian dress.
* ↑ An implement used by farmers in cutting grass and wood.
* ↑ Evil spirit.
* ↑ Kenari, a beautiful tree. The kenari produces a nut, of which very good oil is made.
* ↑ Waringi, one of the most beautiful trees in Java.
* ↑ Bojajas = crocodiles. “To bring a sacrifice to the crocodiles.” Such sacrifices are much in vogue. Some fruits and some pastry, or a few hen’s eggs, are placed on a saucer of bamboo, one or more burning wax-lighta are added, all this is placed on the river, and the floating down of many such sacrifices is a beautiful sight.
* ↑ Baleh-baleh = couch.
* ↑ Enclosure.
* ↑ Read the address of the Lieutenant-General Van Swieten to his soldiers. See Ideen (Ideas) of Multatuli, first bundle, and the speech of Mr. Douwes Dekker in the Annales of the International Congress for the Promotion of Social Science (Amsterdam, 1864).
* ↑   “But God in high displeasure turned away, And honoured not the offerings of that day.”