Max Havelaar (Siebenhaar)/Chapter 2
Things were dull on ’Change, but the Springsale is pretty well bound to make up for it. Don’t think that there is nothing doing with us. With Busselinck & Waterman things are still duller. A strange world! One experiences a good few things, when one is on the Exchange for some twenty years. Just think! They have tried—Busselinck & Waterman—to get Ludwig Stern away from me. As I don’t know whether you are acquainted with the Exchange, I must first tell you that Stern is one of the foremost firms in coffee in Hamburg, which has always been served by Last & Co. Quite accidentally I came to know it. . . . I mean the trickery of Busselinck & Waterman. They promised to drop a quarter per cent. of the rebate—they are scabs, nothing better—and now look what I have done to parry that blow. Another in my place would probably have written to Ludwig Stern that he also would drop something, and that he hoped for consideration in view of the longtime services of Last & Co. . . . I have calculated that the firm, during the past more than fifty years, has made £35,000 out of Stern. The connection dates back to the Continental System, when we smuggled colonial imports from Heligoland. Yes, it is difficult to say what things another would have written. But no, I draw the line at being a scab. I went to “Poland,”[1] ordered pen and paper, and wrote:
This is the absolute truth! That the large increase of our business of late, especially owing to the many valued orders from North Germany . . .
. . . that this increase necessitated an addition to our staff.
Absolutely true! Only last night the Accountant was at his desk after eleven, to look for his spectacles.
That a special need was felt of respectable, well-brought-up young men, for the German correspondence. That certainly many German youths, already in Amsterdam, possessed the necessary qualifications, but that a self-respecting firm . . .
Absolute truth!
. . . in view of the growing frivolity and immorality among the young, of the daily increase of the number of fortune-hunters, and bearing in mind the necessity of combining reliability in conduct with reliability in the carrying out of orders . . .
I swear it is all absolute truth!
that such a firm—I mean Last & Co., coffee-brokers, Laurier Canal, No. 37—could not be too cautious in the matter of engaging employés.
All this is the unadulterated truth, reader! You probably don’t know that the young German who stood on the Exchange near pillar No. 17 has run away with the daughter of Busselinck & Waterman! And our own Mary will be thirteen next September!
. . . that I had had the honour to hear from Mr. Saffeler—Saffeler travels for Stern—that the esteemed head of the firm, Mr. Ludwig Stern, had a son, Mr. Ernest Stern, who, to perfect his commercial knowledge, was desirous of being employed for some time in a Dutch firm. That I, with a view to . . .
Here I repeated all that immorality business, and told the story of the daughter of Busselinck & Waterman. Not in order to blacken anyone . . . no, throwing dirt is entirely foreign to my habits! But . . . it can do no harm that they should know it, I should think.
. . . that with a view to this, I could wish nothing better than to see Mr. Ernest Stern in charge of the German correspondence of our firm.
Out of delicacy I avoided every allusion to an honorarium or salary. But I added:
That, if Mr. Ernest Stern would be contented to make our house—Laurier Canal, No. 37—his home, my wife had expressed herself as prepared to look after him like a mother, and that his linen would be mended on the premises.
This is the absolute truth, for Mary darns and mends very nicely. And finally:
That in our house we served the Lord.
This he can put into his pipe, for the Sterns are Lutherans. And so I sent my letter. You will understand that old Stern cannot very well transfer his business to Busselinck & Waterman if his boy is in our office. I am dying to get his answer.
And now, reverting to my book. A short while since I happened to pass through the Kalver-street, and stopped to look at the shop of a grocer, who was busy mixing a parcel of Java, ordinary, fine-yellow, Cheribon-type, a little broken, with sweepings, which interested me a good deal, for I always take notice of everything. All of a sudden I spotted a gentleman who stood next door in front of a bookshop, and whom I thought I knew. He seemed to recognize me also, for our eyes kept meeting. I must confess that I was too much taken up with the sweepings to notice at once a thing which I saw afterwards, namely that he was rather shabbily dressed. Otherwise I should have left the matter alone. But all at once the thought occurred to me that he might be a traveller for a German firm, in search of a reliable broker. He certainly had a touch of the German about him, and also of the traveller. He was very fair, had blue eyes, and in his bearing and get-up there was something of the foreigner. Instead of a suitable winter coat, he had a kind of shawl hanging over his shoulder—Frits says “Châle”: he is learning French, but I keep to our good old language—as if he had just come from a journey. I thought I was meeting a client, and gave him an address-card: Last & Co., coffee-brokers, Laurier Canal, No. 37. He held it up to the gaslight and said: “Thank you, but I find I am mistaken; I thought I had the pleasure of seeing an old schoolfellow; but . . . Last? That’s not the name.”
“Beg pardon,” said I—for I am always courteous—“I am Mr. Drystubble, Batavus Drystubble. Last & Co. is the firm, coffee-brokers, Laurier . . .”
“Well, Drystubble, have you forgotten me? Just look well at me.”
The more I looked at him, the more I remembered having seen him before. But strange to say, his face had the effect on me of making me smell outlandish perfumes. Don’t laugh at this, reader, you will see presently what was the cause of it. I am sure he did not carry a drop of perfume about him, and yet I smelt something agreeable, something strong, something that reminded me. . . . I had got it!
“Is it you,” I exclaimed, “who rescued me from the Greek?”
“Most decidedly,” he said, “that was I. And how are you?”
I told him that there were thirteen of us at the office, and that there was a lot doing in our firm. And then I asked how he was getting on, which I regretted afterwards, for he appeared to be in any but flourishing circumstances, and I am not keen on poor people, as there is usually some fault of their own at the back of it, for the Lord would not desert anyone who had served him faithfully. Had I said quite simply: “we are thirteen, and . . . well, good evening!” I should have been quit of him. But all these questions and answers made it more and more difficult—Frits says: “ever more difficult”; but I don’t—more and more difficult then, to get rid of him. On the other hand, however, I must also admit that then you would not have got this book to read, for it is the result of that meeting. I like to notice the good as well as the bad, and those who do otherwise are discontented people, whom I cannot bear.
Yes, indeed, it was he who had rescued me from the hands of the Greek! Now don’t think that I have ever been captured by pirates, or that I had a quarrel in the Levant. I have already told you that after my marriage I went with my wife to The Hague. There we saw the pictures in the Maurits-House, and bought flannel in the Veene-street. That is the only excursion our business has ever permitted me, as there is so much doing in our firm. No, it was in Amsterdam itself that, for my sake, he struck a Greek, so that the man’s nose bled. For he always meddled in things that did not concern him.
It was in 1833 or 1834, I think, and it was in September, for the Amsterdam fair was on. As my people intended to make a clergyman of me, I learnt Latin. Afterwards I have often asked myself why one must understand Latin in order to say in one’s own language: “God is good!” Enough, I went to the Latin school—they now say grammar school—and there was a fair on . . . in Amsterdam, I mean. On the Westermarket there were booths, and if you are an Amsterdammer, reader, and of about my age, you will remember that among those there was one which was distinguished for the black eyes and the long plaits of a girl who was dressed in Greek fashion. Her father was a Greek, or at least he looked like a Greek. They sold all sorts of scents.
I was just old enough to think the girl pretty, without, however, having the courage to speak to her. For that matter it would have availed me but little, for girls of eighteen look upon a boy of sixteen as a child. And in this they are quite right. Yet we, boys of “the fourth,” came every evening to the Westermarket to see that girl.
Now it happened on one of these occasions that he who at this moment stood before me with his shawl was with us, although he was a couple of years younger than the others, and therefore still too childish to look at the Greek girl. But he was the top boy of our class—for he was clever, that must be admitted—and he was fond of games, horseplay, and fighting. That’s why he was with us. So as we—there were quite ten of us—stood, at a fair distance from the booth, looking at the Greek girl, and deliberated how we should manage to make her acquaintance, we decided to put together our money in order to buy something at the booth. But then the dilemma was to find the bold boy who would dare to speak to the girl. Everyone wanted to, but no one dared. We drew lots and the task fell to me. Now I fully admit that I am not fond of facing dangers. I am a husband and a father, and I look on everyone who seeks danger as a fool, and so it says in the Scriptures also. It is indeed a pleasure to me to notice how in my opinions about danger and such-like things, I have been consistent all my life, as even now I still hold exactly the same opinion about these things as I did on that evening when I stood there at the booth of the Greek, with the twelve pence we had put together in my hand. But, unfortunately, through false shame I durst not say that I durst not, and besides, I was simply forced to go forward, for my mates pushed me, and soon I stood in front of the booth.
I did not see the girl: I saw nothing! Everything seemed to turn green and yellow before my eyes. I stammered an aoristus primus of I know not what verb. . . .
“Plait-il?” she said.
I recovered a little, and continued:
“Menin aeide thea,” and . . . that Egypt was a gift of the Nile.
I am convinced that I should have succeeded in making her acquaintance, if at that moment one of the fellows in childish mischief had not given me such a push in the back that I collided roughly with the counter, which, to half the height of a man, shut off the front of the booth. I felt my neck gripped . . . a second grip, much lower down. . . . I floated in the air for a moment . . . and before I understood clearly what was the matter, I was inside the booth of the Greek, who told me in intelligible French that I was a gamin, and that he would call the police. Now it is true that I was close to the girl, but it gave me no pleasure. I cried, I begged for mercy, for I was in terrible fear. But it was of no avail. The Greek held me by my arm, and kicked me. I looked for my mates—we had that very morning dealt a great deal with Scaevola, who put his hand into the fire, and in their Latin compositions they had considered this so very fine—yes, indeed! But never a one remained behind to put a hand into the fire for me.
So I thought. But behold: suddenly my Shawlman rushed into the booth through the back door. He was neither tall nor strong, and only about thirteen, but he was a smart and plucky little fellow. I still see his eyes flashing—they were usually dim—he gave the Greek a blow with his fist, and I was saved. Afterwards I heard that the Greek had beaten him severely, but as it is a fixed principle with me never to meddle with things that do not concern me, I immediately ran away. So I did not see it.
This then is the reason why his features reminded me so of scent, and of the way one may get into a quarrel with a Greek in Amsterdam. At subsequent fairs, when this man stood again with his booth in the Westermarket, I always sought my entertainment elsewhere.
As I am very fond of philosophical observations, I just want to say to you, reader, how wonderfully the affairs of this world hang together. If the eyes of that girl had been less black, if her plaits had been shorter, or if someone had not thrown me against that counter, you would not now be reading this book. Be thankful, therefore, that it happened thus. Believe me, everything in the world is good, just as it is, and discontented people who for ever complain are not my friends. Take for instance Busselinck & Waterman . . . but I must proceed, for my book must be finished before the Springsale.
Frankly speaking—for I like the truth—seeing this person again was not agreeable to me. I at once realized that it was not a reliable connection. He was very pale, and when I asked him the time, he could not tell me. These are things a man notices, after being on the Exchange for some twenty years, and witnessing a good many things. It’s a good many firms I've seen go down!
I thought he would turn to the right, and said I had to go to the left. But, you see, he went to the left also, and so I could not avoid getting into conversation with him. But I remembered every moment that he did not know the time, and noticed moreover that his shabby coat was buttoned right up to the chin—which is a very bad sign—so that I kept the tone of our conversation somewhat lukewarm. He told me he had been in India, that he was married, that he had children. I had nothing against it, but found nothing interesting in it. Near Kapel-lane—at no other time do I go through that lane, because it does not, it seems to me, become a respectable man—but this time I wished to turn to the right at Kapel-lane. I waited till we had nearly passed that little street, so as to make it clear that his road was straight on, and then I said very courteously . . . for I am always courteous, one never knows how perhaps one may afterwards want a man:
“I was particularly delighted to see you again, Sir—r —r! And—and—and—my best wishes! I have to go in here.”
Then he looked at me very peculiarly and sighed, and suddenly got hold of a button of my coat. . . .
“Dear Drystubble,” he said, “I have something to ask you.”
A cold shiver went through my spine. He did not know the time, and he wanted to ask me something! I answered of course that I had no time to spare, and had to go to ’Change, although it was evening. But when one has been on the Exchange for twenty years . . . and a man wants to ask you something, without knowing the time . . .
I disengaged my button, saluted most politely—for I am always polite—and entered Kapel-lane, a thing I never do otherwise, as it is not respectable, and I place respectability above everything. I trust no one saw me.
- ↑ The “Poland Café.”