Max Havelaar (Nahuijs)/Chapter 6

by Multatuli

Layout 2

Chapter VI.

[Continuation of Stern’s composition.]

The Controller Verbrugge was a good man. When you saw him sitting there in his blue cloth dress-coat, embroidered with oak and orange branches on collar and cuffs, you could not have found a better type of the Dutchman in India, who, by the way, is quite different from the Dutchman in Holland. Slow as long as there was nothing to be done; far from that fussiness, which in Europe is mistaken for zeal, but zealous where business required attention; plain, but cordial to those around him; communicative, willing to help, and hospitable; very polite without stiffness; susceptible of good impressions; honest and sincere, without wishing to be a martyr to these qualities;—in short, he was a man, who, as they say, could make himself at home anywhere, yet without making any one think of calling the century by his name—an honour which, in truth, he did not desire.

He was sitting in the middle of the ‘pendoppo,’ near the table, which was covered with a white cloth, and well furnished with viands. Rather impatiently from time to time, in the words of Mrs. Bluebeard’s sister, he asked the mandoor—[that is, the chief of police, and officials under the Assistant Resident]—if there was nothing to be seen. Then he got up, tried in vain to make his spurs clatter on the hard clay floor of the ‘pendoppo,’ lighted his cigar, and sat down again. He spoke little; but could have spoken more, for he was not alone.——I do not refer to the twenty or thirty Javanese servants, ‘mantries,’ and overseers, who sat squatting on the ground in the ‘pendoppo,’ nor to the numbers who incessantly ran in and out, nor to those of different rank, that held the horses outside, or rode on horseback;—the Regent of Lebak himself, Radeen Adhipatti Karta Natta Negara, sat facing him. To wait is always tiresome: a quarter of an hour seems an hour; an hour half a day, and so on. Verbrugge might have been more talkative. The Regent of Lebak was an intelligent old man, who could speak on many subjects with sense and judgment: one had only to look at him to be convinced that most of the Europeans who came in contact with him had more to learn from him than he from them. His clear dark eyes contradicted by their fire the weariness of his features and his grey hairs. What he said was generally well considered, which is indeed generally the case with cultivated Orientals; and you perceived, if you were in a conversation with him, that you had to consider his words as letters, of which he had the copy in his archives, in order to recall them if necessary. This may appear disagreeable to those who are not accustomed to converse with Javanese grandees, yet it is very easy to avoid in conversation all topics that might become a stumbling-block, for they will never abruptly give another direction to the course of the conversation; because, according to Eastern ideas, this would be contrary to politeness. Thus every one who has reason to avoid speaking on a certain subject has only to speak about insignificant matters, and he may rest assured that a Javanese chief will not, by giving the conversation an unwished-for turn, bring him upon ground which he does not like to tread upon.

On the mode of dealing with these chiefs there are also different opinions. I think that sincerity alone, without any attempt at diplomatic prudence, deserves preference. Be that as it may, Verbrugge began with an observation on the weather and the rain.

“Yes, Mr. Controller, it is the rainy season.”

Now Verbrugge knew this very well: it was January; but the Regent knew, too, what he had said about the rain. Then again there was silence. The Regent beckoned with a scarcely visible motion of the head to one of the servants that sat squatting at the entrance of the ‘pendoppo,’ A little boy, splendidly dressed in a blue velvet jacket and white trousers, with a golden girdle confining his magnificent Sarong^[1] round his waist, and on his head the pretty Kain Kapala,^[2] under which his black eyes peeped forth so roguishly, crept squatting to the feet of the Regent, put down the gold box which contained the Siric,^[3] the lime, the pinang, the gambier,^[4] and the tobacco, made his Slamat by raising both his hands put together to his forehead, as he bowed low, and then offered the precious box to his master.

“The road will be very difficult, after so much rain,” said the Regent, as if to explain the long pause, whilst he covered the betel-leaf with lime.

“In the Pandaglang the road is not so bad,” Verbrugge replied; who, unless he wanted to hint at something disagreeable, gave that answer certainly a little inconsiderately; for he ought to have taken into consideration that a Regent of Lebak does not like to hear the Pandaglang roads praised, even if they are much better than those of Lebak.

The Adhipatti did not make the mistake of replying too quickly. The little maas had already crept squatting backwards to the entrance of the ‘pendoppo,’ where he remained with his companions; the Regent had made his lips and few remaining teeth red with the juice of his betel, before he said—

“Yes; Pandaglang is more populous.”

To one acquainted with the Regent and the Controller, to whom the state of Lebak was no secret, it would have been quite clear that the conversation had already become a quarrel. An allusion to the better state of the roads in a neighbouring province appeared to be the consequence of the fruitless endeavours to improve the roads in Lebak. But the Regent was right in saying that Pandaglang was more populous, above all things, in proportion to the much smaller surface, and that, of course, united power rendered labour on the great roads there much easier than in Lebak, a province which counted but seventy thousand inhabitants on a surface of some hundred miles.

“That is true,” said Verbrugge, “our population is not large, but——”

The Adhipatti looked at him, as if he expected an attack. He knew that “but” might be followed by something disagreeable for him to hear, who had been for thirty years Regent of Lebak. Verbrugge wished to end the conversation, and asked the ‘mandoor’ again if he saw nothing coming.

“I do not yet see anything from the Pandaglang side, Mr. Controller; but yonder on the other side there is somebody on horseback——it is the Commandant.”

“To be sure, Dongso!” said Verbrugge, looking outside; “he hunts in this neighbourhood; he went away this morning very early——ho! Duclari—Duclari——”

“He hears you, sir; he is coming this way. His boy rides after him.”

“Hold the Commandant’s horse,” said Mr. Verbrugge to one of the servants. “Good-morning, Duclari, are you wet?——what have you killed? Come in.”

A strong man about thirty years of age and of military appearance, though there was no trace of a uniform to be seen, entered the ‘pendoppo.’ It was Lieutenant Duclari, commandant of the small garrison of Rankas-Betong. Verbrugge and he were familiar friends, as Duclari had lived for some time in Verbrugge’s house, pending the completion of a new fort. He shook hands with him, politely saluted the Regent, and sat down asking: “What have you here?”

“Will you have some tea, Duclari?”

“Certainly not; I am hot enough. Have you no cocoanut milk?—that is refreshing.”

“I won’t let you have it. If one is hot, cocoa-milk is, in my opinion, very unwholesome; it makes you stiff and gouty. Look at the coolies who carry heavy burdens over the mountains—they keep themselves active and supple by drinking hot water or Koppi dahoen—but ginger-tea is still better——”

“What?—Koppi dahoen, tea of coffee-leaves? That I have never seen.” “Because you have not served in Sumatra: there it is common.”

“Let me have tea then—but not of coffee-leaves, or ginger.——So, you have been at Sumatra——and the new Assistant Resident, too, has he not?”

All this was spoken in Dutch, which the Regent did not understand. Either Duclari felt that it was not very polite to exclude him in this way from the conversation, or he had another object in view, because all at once he commenced speaking Malay, addressing the Regent:—

“Does the Adhipatti know that the Controller is acquainted with the new Assistant Resident?”

“No, I did not say so;—I don’t know him,” said Verbrugge, in Malay. “I have never seen him; he served in Sumatra some years before me. I only told you that I had there heard a good deal about him.”

“Now, that is the same thing; it is not necessary to see a person in order to know him——what does the Adhipatti think about it?”

The Adhipatti at that moment wanted to call a servant. Some time elapsed before he could say, “that he agreed with the Commandant, but that still it was often necessary to see a person before you could judge of him.”

“Generally speaking, that is perhaps true,” Duclari continued in Dutch, either because he knew that language better, and thought he had done enough for politeness’ sake, or because he wished to be understood by Verbrugge alone, —“that may be true, generally speaking; but with regard to Havelaar you need no personal acquaintance——he is a fool.” .

“I did not say so, Duclari.”

“No, you did not say so, but I say it, after all you have told me of him. I call any one who jumps into the water to save a dog from the sharks a fool.”

“Yes, it was foolish, but——”

“And recollect that——epigram on General Van Damme——that was not proper.”

“It was witty——”

“Yes, but a young man may not be witty at the expense of a General.”

“You must bear in mind that he was then very young—it was fourteen years ago—he was only twenty years old.”

“And then the turkey which he stole?”

“That he did to annoy the General.”

“Exactly so. A young man may not annoy a General, especially one who is, as civil governor, his superior——the epigram I think very funny——but then again that duelling——”

“He did it generally on behalf of another; he always was the champion of the weak.”

“Well, let every one fight for himself, if fighting there must be. As for me, I think that a duel is seldom necessary; if necessary, I should accept it, but——to make a custom of it——I’d rather not. I hope that he is changed in this respect——”

“To be sure, there is no doubt about that. He is now so much older, has long been a married man, and Assistant Resident. Moreover, I have always heard that his heart is good, and that he has a strong sense of justice.”

“Then he is just fit for Lebak——something happened this morning that——Do you think that the Regent understands us?”

“I do not think so; but show me something out of your game-bag; then he will think that we are speaking of that.”

Duclari took his bag, pulled out two wood-cocks, and, handling them, as if speaking about his sport, he communicated to Verbrugge that he had been followed by a Javanese, who had asked him if he could do nothing to lighten the pressure under which the population groaned? “And,” he went on, “that means much, Verbrugge! Not that I wonder at the fact itself; I have been long enough in the Residency of Bantam to know what is going on here; but that a common Javanese, generally so circumspect and reserved in what concerns the chiefs, should make such a request to one who has nothing to do with it, surprises me.”

“And what did you answer, Duclari?”

“Well, that it was not my business; that he must go to you, or to the new Assistant Resident, when he arrives at Rankas-Betong, and there make his complaint.”

“There they come,” said the servant Dongso, all at once. “I see a ‘mantrie’ waving his toodong.”^[5]

All stood up. Duclari not wishing it to appear that he had come to the frontiers to welcome the Assistant Resident, his superior in rank but not in command, and who was moreover a fool, mounted his horse, and rode off, followed by his servant.

The Adhipatti and Verbrugge, standing at the entrance of the ‘pendoppo,’ saw a travelling carriage approaching, dragged by four horses, which soon stopped, covered with mud, near the little bamboo building.

It would have been very difficult to guess what there could be in that coach, before Dongso, helped by the runners and a legion of servants belonging to the Regent’s suite, had undone all the straps and buttons, that enclosed the vehicle in a black leathern cover, an operation which put you in mind of the precautions with which lions and tigers were formerly brought into cities when the Zoological Gardens were as yet only travelling menageries. Now there were no lions or tigers in the van; they had only shut it up in this way because it was the west monsoon,^[6] and it was necessary to be prepared for rain.

Now the alighting out of a van, in which one has jolted for a long time along the road, is not so easy, as he would think who has never, or but seldom travelled. Almost as in the case of the poor Saurians of the Antediluvian period, which, by staying too long, at last became an integral part of the clay, which they had not originally entered with the intention of remaining there, so with travellers who have been sitting too long cooped up in a travelling carriage, there happens something that I propose to call assimilation.——At last one hardly knows where the leathern cushion ends, and his individuality begins. Yes, I even think that one might have toothache or cramp in such a position, and mistake it for moth in the cloth, or mistake moth in the cloth for toothache or cramp. * * *

There are but few circumstances in the material world that do not afford to the thinking man the opportunity of making intellectual observations, and so I have often asked myself whether many errors, that have become common with us, many “Wrongs” that we think to be right, owe their origin to the fact, of having been sitting too long with the same company in the same travelling carriage? The leg, that you had to put there on the left, between the hat-box, and the little basket of cherries;—the knee, which you held pressed against the coach-door, not to make the lady opposite you think that you intended an attack on her crinoline or virtue;—the foot, covered with corns, that was so much afraid of the heels of the “commercial traveller” near you;—the neck, which you had to bend so long a time to the left because rain came in on the right side, all these are at last somewhat distorted. I think it well to change from time to time coaches, seats, and fellow-travellers. Then you can give your neck another direction, you can sometimes move your knee, and perhaps you may have a young lady near you with dancing-shoes, or a little boy whose feet do not touch the ground. Then you have a better chance of looking and walking straight, as soon as you get solid earth under your feet.

If anything in the coach that stopped before the ‘pendoppo’ was opposed to the solution of continuity I don’t know; but it is certain that it was some time before any­ thing appeared.

There seemed to be a difficulty of etiquette, judging from the words: “If you please, Madam!” and “Resident!” Be this as it may, a gentleman at length stepped out who had in his attitude and appearance something perhaps which made you think of the Saurians I have spoken of. As we shall meet him again afterwards, I will tell you at once that his immobility was not only due to assimilation with the travelling coach, since, even when there was no van in the neighbourhood, he exhibited a calmness, a slowness, and a prudence, that would make many a Saurian jealous, and that in the eyes of many would be considered as tokens of a sedate, calm, and wise man. He was, like most Europeans in India, very pale, which, however, is not in the least considered in these regions as a sign of delicate health. He had fine features, that certainly bore witness of intellectual development. But there was something cold in his glance, something that made you think of a table of logarithms; and though his aspect on the whole was not unpleasing or repulsive, one could not help thinking that the very large thin nose on that face was annoyed because there was so little stir.

He politely offered his hand to a lady, to help her in getting out, and after he had taken from a gentleman who was still in the coach, a child, a little fair boy of about three years old, they entered the ‘pendoppo.’ Then that gentleman himself alighted, and any one acquainted with Java would immediately observe that he waited at the carriage door to assist an old Javanese baboe (nurse-maid). Three servants had delivered themselves out of the little leather cupboard that was stuck to the back of the coach, after the manner of a young oyster on an old one.

The gentleman who had first alighted had offered his hand to the Regent and the Controller Verbrugge, which they accepted with respect; and by their attitude you could see that they were aware of the presence of an important personage. It was the Resident of Bantam, the great province of which Lebak is a district,—a Regency, or, in official language, an Assistant Residency. I have often, when reading works of fiction, been offended at the little respect of the authors for the taste of the public, and more than ever with anything comical or burlesque; a person is made to speak, who does not understand the language, or at least pronounces it badly; a Frenchman is made to speak Dutch thus: “Ka Kaurv na de Krote Krak,” or “Krietje Kooit Keen Kare Kroente Kraakwek.”^[7] For want of a Frenchman, a stammerer is selected, or a person “created,” whose hobby consists of two words recurring every moment. I have witnessed the success of a foolish vaudeville, because there was somebody in it who was always saying: “My name is Meyer.” I think this manner of being witty too cheap, and to tell you the truth, I am cross with you, if you think this funny. But now, I have to introduce to you something of that kind myself. I have to show you from time to time a person—I shall do it as seldom as possible—who had, indeed, a manner of speaking which makes me fear to be suspected of an unsuccessful effort to make you laugh; and, therefore, I must assure you that it is not my fault, if the very sedate Resident of Bantam, of whom I am speaking, is so peculiar in his mode of expressing himself, that it is very difficult for me to sketch that, without giving myself the appearance of seeking to produce the effect of wit by means of tic.^[8] He spoke as if there stood after each word a period, or even a long pause; and I cannot find a better comparison for the distance between his words than the silence which follows the “Amen” after a long prayer in church; which is, as every one knows, a signal of the proper time to cough or blow one’s nose. What he said was generally well considered, and if he could have persuaded himself to omit those untimely pauses, his sentences would have been, in a rhetorical point of view at least, passable, but all that crumbling, stuttering, and ruggedness, made listening to him very tedious. One often stumbled at it, for generally, if you commenced to reply, thinking the sentence finished, and the remainder left to your ingenuity, the remaining words came on as the stragglers of a defeated army, and made you think that you had interrupted him,—an idea which is always disagreeable. The public at Serang, such persons at least as were not in the service of the Government, called his conversation ‘slimy,’ but Government employés were more circumspect. I do not think this word very nice, but I must confess that it expressed very well the principal quality of the Resident’s eloquence. As yet I have said nothing of Max Havelaar and his wife,—for these were the two persons who had alighted from the carriage after the Resident, with their child and the ‘baboe;’ and perhaps it might be sufficient to leave the description of their appearance and character to the current of events and your proper imagination. But as I am now occupied with descriptions, I will tell you that Madam Havelaar was not beautiful, but that she still had in language and look something very charming, and she showed very plainly, by the ease of her manner, that she had been in the world, and was at home in the higher classes of society. She had not that stiffness and unpleasantness of snobbish respectability which thinks that it must torment itself and others with “constraint,” in order to be considered distingué; and she did not care much for appearances which are thought much of by other women. In her dress too she was an example of simplicity. A white muslin Coadjoe^[9] with a blue Cordelière,—I believe they call this in Europe peignoir,—was her travelling costume. Round her neck she wore a thin silk cord, from which hung two little medallions, invisible, because they were concealed in the folds of her dress. Her hair à la Chinoise, with a garland of melati^[10] in the Kondek,^[11]—completed her toilette.

I said that she was not beautiful, and yet I should not like you to think her ugly. I hope that you will find her beautiful as soon as I have an opportunity to show her to you, burning with indignation at what she called the “disregard of genius” when her Max was concerned, or when she was animated with an idea in connexion with the welfare of her child.

It has too often already been said that the face is the mirror of the soul, for us to speak well of an immovable face that has nothing to reflect, because there is no soul reflected in it. Well, she had a noble soul, and certainly he must be blind who did not think her face very beautiful, when that soul could be read in it.

Havelaar was a man of about thirty-five years. He was slender and active in his movements; except his very short and expressive upper lip, and his large pale blue eyes—which, if he was in a calm humour, had something dreamlike, but which flashed fire if he was animated with a grand idea—there was nothing particular in his appearance. His light hair hung flat round his temples, and I can believe very well, that if you saw him for the first time, you would not arrive at the conclusion, that there was a person before you possessing rare qualities both of head and heart. He was full of contradictions: sharp as a lancet, and tender-hearted as a girl, he always was the first himself to feel the wound which his bitter words had inflicted; and he suffered more than the wounded. He was quick of comprehension, grasped immediately the highest and the most intricate matters, liked to amuse himself with the solution of difficult questions, and to such pursuits would devote all pains, study, and exertion. Yet often he did not understand the most simple thing, which a child could have explained to him. Full of love for truth and justice, he often neglected his most simple and nearest obligations to remedy an injustice which lay higher, or further, or deeper, and which allured him more by the perhaps greater exertion of the struggle. He was chivalrous and gallant, but often like that other Don Quixote he wasted his valour on a windmill. He burned with insatiable ambition, which made him look on all the ordinary distinctions of social life as vanities, and yet he considered his greatest happiness to consist in a calm, domestic, secluded life. He was a poet in the highest sense of the word; at the sight of a spark he dreamed of solar systems; peopled them with creatures of his own creation, felt himself to be lord of a world, which he had animated, and yet could immediately thereupon have a conversation on the price of rice, the rules of grammar, or the economic advantages of the Egyptian system of artificial incubation. No science was entirely unknown to him: he “guessed intuitively” what he did not know, and possessed in a very high degree the gift of using the little he knew (every one knows a little, and he, though knowing more than some others, was no exception to this rule) in a way that multiplied the measure of his knowledge. He was punctual and orderly, besides being exceedingly patient; but precisely because punctuality, order, and patience were difficult to him,—his mind being somewhat wild,—slow and circumspect in judging of affairs; though this seemed not to be the case with those who heard him reach his conclusions so quickly. His impressions were too vivid to be thought durable, and yet he often proved that they were durable. All that was grand and sublime allured him, and at the same time he was simple and naïf as a child. He was honest, above all things where honesty became magnanimity, and would have left unpaid hundreds which he owed because he had given away thousands. He was witty and entertaining where he felt that his wit was understood, but otherwise blunt and reserved: cordial to his friends; a champion of sufferers; sensible to love and friendship; faithful to his given word; yielding in trifles, but firm as a rock where he thought it worth the trouble to show character; humble and benevolent to those who acknowledged his intellectual superiority, but troublesome to those who desired to oppose it; candid from pride, and sometimes reserved, where he feared that his straightforwardness might be mistaken for ignorance; equally susceptible to sensuous and spiritual enjoyment; timid and ineloquent where he thought he was not understood, but eloquent when he felt that his words fell on fertile soil; slow when he was not urged by an incitement that came forth from his own soul, but zealous, ardent, where this was the case; moreover, he was affable, polite in his manners, and blameless in behaviour,—such was within a little the character of Havelaar.

I say, “within a little,” for if all definitions are difficult, this is particularly the case in the description of a person who differs much from the every-day cast of men.

That is also the reason, I think, why the poets of romance generally make their heroes either devils or angels. Black or white is easy to paint, but it is more difficult to produce the varieties between these two extremes, when truth must be respected, and neither side coloured too dark or too light. I feel that the sketch which I have tried to give of Havelaar is very imperfect. The materials before me are of so extensive a nature that they impede my judgment by excess of richness, and I shall perhaps again refer to this by way of supplement, while developing the events which I wish to communicate to you. This is certain,—he was an uncommon man, and surely worthy of careful study. I see even now, that I have neglected to give, as one of his chief characteristics, that he understood at the same time, and with the same quickness, the ridiculous and the serious side of things,—a peculiar quality, imparting unconsciously to his manner of speaking a sort of humour which made his listeners always doubt whether they were touched by the deep feeling that prevailed in his words, or had to laugh at the drollery that interrupted at once the earnestness of them.

It was very remarkable that his appearance, and even his emotions, gave so few traces of his past life. The boast of experience has become a ridiculous commonplace; there are people who have floated for fifty or sixty years in the stream in which they think to swim, and who can tell of that time little more than that they have removed from A——— Square to B——— Street, and nothing is more common than to hear those very persons boast of experience, who got their grey hairs so very easily. Other people think that they may found their claims to experience on external vicissitudes, without its appearing from anything that they have been affected in their inner life. I can imagine that to witness, or even to take part in, important events, may have little or no influence on the souls of some men. Who entertains a doubt of this, may ask himself if experience may be ascribed to all the inhabitants of France who were forty or fifty years old in 1815? And yet they were all persons who saw, not only the acting of the great drama which commenced in 1789, but had even played a more or less important part in that drama.

And, on the contrary, how many persons undergo a series of emotions without the external circumstances seeming to give occasion for it. Think of “Robinson Crusoe,” of Pellico’s captivity; of the charming “Picciola,” of Saintine; of the struggle in the breast of an old maid, who cherished through her whole life but one love, without ever betraying by a single word what were the feelings of her heart; of the emotions of the philanthropist, who, without being externally involved in the current of events, is ardently interested in the welfare of fellow-citizens or fellow-creatures, the more he alternately hopes and fears, the more he observes every change, kindles into enthusiasm for a beautiful idea, and burns with indignation if he sees it pushed away and trampled upon by those who, for some time at least, were stronger than beautiful ideas. Think of the philosopher, who from out his cell tries to teach the people what truth is, if he has to remark that his voice is overpowered by devout hypocrisy or adventurous quacks. Think of Socrates, not when he empties the poisoned cup—for I speak here of the experience of the mind, and not of that which owes its existence to external circumstances,—how intensely sad his soul must have been, when he, who loved what is right and true, heard himself called a corrupter of youth and a despiser of the gods. Or better still, think of Christ, gazing with such profound sadness on Jerusalem, and complaining that it “would not!”

Such a cry of grief—above that of the poisoned cup, or cross—does not come from an untried heart. There must have been suffering——there is experience!

This outburst has escaped me,—it now stands, and may remain. Havelaar had experienced much. Will you have, for instance, something that counterbalances the removing from A——— Street? He had suffered shipwreck more than once, he had experience of fire, insurrection, assassination, war, duels, luxury, poverty, hunger, cholera, love, and “loves.” He had visited France, Germany, Belgium, Italy, Switzerland, England, Spain, Portugal, Russia, Egypt, Arabia, India, China, and America. As to his vicissitudes, he had many opportunities of experience, and that he had truly experienced much, that he had not gone through life without catching the impressions which it offered him so plentifully, was evidenced by the quickness of his mind and the susceptibility of his soul. What excited the wonder of all who knew or could conjecture how much he had experienced and suffered, was that you could see so little of that on his face. Certainly there was something like fatigue in his features, but this made you think rather of prematurely ripe youth than of approaching old age; yet approaching old age it ought to have been, for in India the man of thirty-five years is no longer young. His emotions too had remained young, as I said before. He could play with a child, and as a child, and often he complained that little Max was still too young to fly a kite, because he, “great Max,” liked that so very much. With boys he played “leap-frog,” and liked to draw a pattern for the girls’ embroidery: he even often took the needle from them and amused himself with that work, though he always said that they could do something better than that “mechanical counting of stitches.” With young men of eighteen he was a young student, liked to sing his Patriam canimus with them, or Gaudeamus igitur,—yes, I am not even quite certain, that not long ago, when he was in Amsterdam on leave, he pulled down a signboard which did not please him, because a nigger was painted on it, chained to the feet of an European with a long pipe in his mouth, and under which was written, of course, “The smoking young merchant.”

The ‘baboe’ whom he had helped out the coach resembled all ‘baboes’ in India when they are old. If you know that sort of servants, I need not tell you how she looked, and if you do not, I cannot tell you. This only distinguished her from other nurses in India, that she had little to do; for Madam Havelaar was an example of care for her child, and what there was to do for or with her little Max, she did herself, to the great astonishment of many other ladies, who did not think proper to act as “slaves to their children.”

 

1. A piece of linen. The Javanese women draw figures on such Sarongs wherewith they express some thoughts or emotion.—Sarong, a sort of petticoat.
2. A handkerchief tied round the head; a sort of turban. The Javanese never appears with uncovered head.
3. Betel.
4. Pinang, gambier,—different spices.
5. A broad-brimmed straw hat, affording protection from rain and sun.
6. The rainy season.
7. This is, when rightly spelt: “Ga gaauw naar de groote gracht,” = Go quickly to the great Canal. “Grietje gooit geen gare groete graag weg,” = Gertrude does not like to throw away any cooked vegetables.
8. Literally translated = convulsive motion.
9. Dress.
10. Melati = a beautiful and fragrant flower.
11. Kondek = chignon.