PREFACE.

Max Havelaar was published a few years ago, and caused such a sensation in Holland as was never before experienced in that country. The author wrote it under the pseudonym of Multatuli, but his real name, Eduard Douwes Dekker, formerly Assistant Resident of the Dutch Government in Java, at once became known. Full of fire, and overflowing with enthusiasm, the author presented it to his countrymen in the form of a novel, —a book wherein he made them acquainted with the incredible extortions and tyranny of which the natives of the Dutch Indies, “that magnificent empire of Insulind, which winds about the equator like a garland of emeralds,” are the victims, and how he tried in vain, while still in the service of the Government, to put an end to the cruel oppressions that happen every day in those countries. Though some considered his book to be merely an interesting and captivating [vi]novel, the author maintained that it contained nothing but facts. He boldly asked

the Dutch Government to prove the substance of his book to be false, but its truth has never been disputed. At the International Congress for the promotion of Social Sciences at Amsterdam, in 1863, he challenged his countrymen to refute him, but there was no champion to accept the challenge. In short, Mr. Douwes Dekker, who had been a functionary in the service of the Dutch Government for the space of seventeen years, rather understated than overstated the truth. Not a single fact was ever contested in Holland, and he is still ready to prove his statements.1 In the Dutch Parliament nobody answered a single word, but Mr. Van Twist, ex-Governor-General of the Dutch Indies, who, on being appealed to by the Baron Van Hoevell, said that he could perhaps refute Max Havelaar, but that it was not his interest to do so.

The book proves that what was formerly written in Uncle Tom’s Cabin of the cruelties perpetrated upon the [vii]slaves in America, is nothing in comparison to what happens every day in the Dutch Indies.

“Max Havelaar” is the name under which the author chooses to describe his experiences in the East; in the first chapters of the book he has just returned from India, and he meets an old school-companion, at that time a coffee-broker, a Mr. Drystubble. This Mr. Drystubble is very rich, and the author being just then very poor, the latter asks his old school-fellow to be security for the publishing of his book. At first Mr. Drystubble will not hear of this, but afterwards, when he perceives that it will be of some advantage to himself, he consents. Drystubble is a very characteristic person, knowing nothing beyond his trade, a great egotist, and is represented by the author with true wit and humour, in order to show the extreme contrast between himself and … some of his countrymen, whom he may perhaps have met with since his return from Java. At that time the author wears a plaid or shawl, and Mr. Drystubble therefore

speaks always of him as Mr. Shawlman. A few months after the publication of Max Havelaar, one of the most eminent members of the Dutch Parliament avowed that this book had struck the whole country with horror. In vain the Dutch tried to [viii]make a party question of it. The author openly declared that he belonged neither to the Liberal nor to the Conservative party; but that he placed himself under the banner of RIGHT, EQUITY, and HUMANITY. As soon, however, as he professed to be a mere friend of mankind, without bias to any political party, the official world avoided even to pronounce his name, and affected to have forgotten the man whose conduct had before been considered as a reproof, and whose influence menaced danger to people in place. Instead of accepting the challenge, it seemed more worthy to fight the battle out with the vile weapons of abuse and slander. Of course the reader will not regard Mr. Drystubble’s nonsensical and hypocritical observations as the sentiments of our author. It is precisely Multatuli’s intention

to make Drystubble odious, and his philosophy absurd, though sometimes he speaks truth and common-sense—for he is a type of a part of the Dutch nation.

So much for the tendency of the book. Need I say that it will do honour to the literature of any language, and that it may be read as well for profit as for amusement? But Max Havelaar is immortal, not because of literary art or talent, but because of the cause he advocates. I think that every one who admires Harriet Beecher Stowe’s [ix]immortal pleading, ought likewise to read Multatuli’s accusation. I compare Max Havelaar to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, but I do not compare Multatuli, the champion and the martyr of humanity and justice, to Mrs. Stowe, for I am not aware that that lady, with all her merits, has sacrificed future fortune, and all that makes life agreeable, for a principle—for right and equity—as has been done by Eduard Douwes Dekker. Max Havelaar bears evidence of having been written by a genius of that order which only appears at long intervals in the world’s history. His mind embraces in its intellectual compass all mankind, regardless of race or caste. By the diffusion of this book a bond will

be formed embracing all lovers of genius and justice throughout the world.

It was the intention of the author to have had his work translated into all the European languages. Unfortunately he unwittingly disposed of the property of his own book, and if it had not thus been “legally” withheld from the people of Holland, it is probable that I should not have been its translator; but I have been constrained to make known as widely as possible the sad truth regarding the mal-administration of laws in themselves good, by the Dutch Government in her Indian dependencies. To the British nation the facts will be new, as the books published [x]in England on Dutch India are few in number, superficial in character, and give no idea of the condition of the native population. I cannot judge of English politics or about British India, but however perfect British rule may be, it cannot be so perfect that it has nothing more to learn.

ALPHONSE JOHAN BERNARD HORSTMAR NAHUIJS.

The Hague, January 17, 1868. [xi]

1 Mr. Veth, the well-known learned Orientalist at Leyden, who made a special study of Indian matters, declared that Multatuli understated the truth, and quoted many authors, such as Mr. Vitalis and others, who had published accounts of scenes and facts much more shocking than he had depicted. Mr. Veth complimented Multatuli upon his moderation, saying that he displayed a mastership of art in not exhausting the subject. ↑

TO

Everdine Huberte, Baroness Wijnbergen.

“J’ai souvent entendu plaindre les femmes de poëte, et sans doute, pour tenir dignement dans la vie ce difficile emploi, aucune qualité n’est de trop. Le plus rare ensemble de mérites n’est que le strict nécessaire, et ne suffit même pas toujours au commun bonheur. Voir sans cesse la muse en tiers dans vos plus familiers entretiens,—recueillir dans ses bras et soigner ce poëte qui est votre mari, quand il vous revient meurtri par les déceptions de sa tâche;—ou bien le voir s’envoler à la poursuite de sa chimère … voilà l’ordinaire de l’existence pour une femme de poëte. Oui, mais aussi il y a le chapître des compensations, l’heure des lauriers qu’il a gagnés à la sueur de son génie, et qu’il dépose pieusement aux pieds de la femme légitimement aimée, aux genoux de l’Antigone qui sert de guide en ce monde à cet ‘aveugle errant;’—

“Car, ne vous-y-trompez-pas: presque tous les petit-fils d’Homère sont plus ou moins aveugles à leur façon;—ils voient ce que nous ne voyons pas; leurs regards pénètrent plus haut et plus au fond que les nôtres; mais ils ne savent pas voir droit devant eux leur petit bonhomme de chemin, et il seraient capables de trébucher et de se casser le nez sur le moindre caillou, s’il leur fallait cheminer sans soutien, dans ces vallées de prose où demeure la vie.”

(Henry de Pène.) [xii]

OFFICER. My Lord, this is the man who murdered Betsy.

JUDGE. He must hang for it. How did he do it?

OFFICER. He cut up her body in little pieces, and salted them.

JUDGE. He is a great criminal. He must hang for it.

LOTHARIO. My Lord, I did not murder Betsy: I fed and clothed and cherished her. I can call witnesses who will prove me to be a good man, and no murderer.

JUDGE. You must hang. You blacken your crime by your self-sufficiency. It ill becomes one who … is accused of anything to set up for a good man.

LOTHARIO. But, my Lord, … there are witnesses to prove it; and as I am now accused of murder.…

JUDGE. You must hang for it. You cut up Betsy—you salted the pieces—and you are satisfied with your conduct,—three capital counts——who are you, my good woman?

WOMAN. I am Betsy.

LOTHARIO. Thank God! You see, my Lord, that I did not murder her.

JUDGE. Humph!——ay——what!——What about the salting?

BETSY. No, my Lord, he did not salt me:——on the contrary, he did many things for me … he is a worthy man!

LOTHARIO. You hear, my Lord, she says I am an honest man.

JUDGE. Humph!——the third count remains. Officer, remove the prisoner, he must hang for it; he is guilty of self-conceit.

(Unpublished Play.)

[1]

CHAPTER I.

I am a coffee-broker, and live at No. 37 Laurier Canal, Amsterdam. I am not accustomed to write novels or works of that kind; therefore it took me a long time before I could resolve to order a few extra quires of paper and begin this book, which you, dear reader, have just taken in hand, and which you must finish, whether you are a coffee-broker or anything else. Not only that I never wrote anything that resembled a novel, but I even do not like to read such things, because I am a man of business. For many years I have asked myself what is the use of such works, and I am astonished at the impudence with which many a poet or novelist dares to tell you stories which never happened, and often never could have happened at all. If I in my position,—I am a coffee-broker, and live at No. 37 Laurier Canal,—made a statement to a Principal, that is, a person who sells coffee, in which I related only a small part of the lies which form the greater part of poems and novels, he [2]would immediately cease to employ me, and go over to Busselinck and Waterman, who

are likewise coffee-brokers,—but you need not know their address. Therefore I take good care not to write any novels, nor to advance any false statements. I have always remarked that persons who do so are often badly off. I am forty-three years of age, I have visited the Exchange for the last twenty years, and, therefore, I can come forward whenever you are in want of a person of experience. How many firms do I know which have been utterly ruined! And generally, when looking for the causes of their failure, it appeared to me that they must be attributed to the wrong direction which most of them followed in the beginning.

My maxims are, and will always be, Truth and Common-sense; making, of course, an exception with regard to the Holy Scriptures. The origin of this fault may be traced to our children’s poet, Van Alphen,1 in his very first line, about “dear little babies.” What the deuce could make that old gentleman declare himself to be an adorer of my little sister Gertrude, who had weak eyes, or of my brother Gerard, who always played with his nose? and yet, he says, “that he sang those poems inspired by love.” I often thought when a child, “My dear fellow, I should like to meet you once, and if you refused me the marbles which I should ask you for, or the [3]initials of my name in chocolate—my name is Batavus—then I should believe you to be a liar.” But I never saw Van Alphen; he was dead, I think, when he told us that my father was my best friend, and that my little dog was so grateful (we never kept any dogs, they are so very dirty); although I was much fonder of little Paul Winser, who lived near us in Batavier Street.

All lies! And yet in this manner education goes on:—“The new little sister came from the vegetable-woman in a big cabbage.” “All Dutchmen are brave and generous.” “The Romans were glad that the Batavians allowed them to live.” “The Bey of Tunis got a colic when he heard the Dutch colours flapping.” “The Duke of Alva was a monster.”2 “The ebb-tide (in 1672, I believe) lasted a little longer than usual, only to protect the Netherlands.” Nonsense! Holland has remained Holland because our forefathers knew how to manage their affairs, and because they had the true religion—that is the reason. And then came other lies. “A girl is an angel.” Whoever first discovered that never had any sisters. Love is a bliss; you fly with some dear object or other to the end of the earth. The earth has no end, and such love is all nonsense. Nobody can say that I do not live on good terms with my wife,—she is a daughter of Last and Co., coffee-brokers,—nobody can find fault with our marriage. I am a member of the

[4]fashionable “Artis” club,3 and she has an Indian shawl which cost £7, 13s. 4d., but yet we never indulged in such a foolish love as would have urged us to fly to the extremities of the earth. When we married, we made an excursion to the Hague. She there bought some flannel, of which I still wear shirts; and further our love has never driven us. So, I say, it is all nonsense and lies! And should my marriage now be less happy than that of those persons who out of pure love become consumptive, or tear the hair out of their heads? Or do you think that my household is less orderly than it would be, if seventeen years ago I had promised my bride in verse that I should marry her? Stuff and nonsense! yet I could have done such a thing as well as any one else; for the making of verses is a profession certainly less difficult than ivory-turning, otherwise how could bon-bons with mottoes be so cheap? Only compare their price with that of two billiard-balls. I have no objection to verses. If you like to put the words into a line, very well;

but do not say anything beyond the truth; thus,—

“The clock strikes four

And it rains no more.”

I will not say anything against that, if it is indeed four [5]o’clock, and it has really stopped raining. But if it is a quarter to three, then I, who do not put my words in verse, can say, “It is a quarter to three, and it has stopped raining.” But the rhymer, because it rains “no more,” is bound to say “four.” Either the time or the weather must be changed, and a lie is the result. And it is not rhyming alone that allures young people to untruth. Go to the theatre, and listen to all the lies they tell you. The hero of the piece is saved from being drowned by a person who is on the point of becoming a bankrupt. Then, as we are told, he gives his preserver half his fortune,—a statement that cannot be true, as I proceed to show. When lately my hat was blown by the wind into the Prinsen Canal, I gave the man twopence who brought it back to me, and he was satisfied. I know very well that I ought to have given a little more if he had saved my own self from drowning, but certainly not half my fortune; for it is evident that in such a case, falling twice into the

water would quite ruin me. The worst of these scenes on the stage is, that people become so much accustomed to untruths, that they get into the habit of admiring and applauding them. I should like to throw all such applauders into the water, to see how many of them really meant that applause. I, who love truth, hereby give notice, that I won’t pay half my fortune for being fished up. He who is not satisfied with less, need not touch me. On Sundays only I should give a little more, on account [6]of my gold chain and best coat. Yes! many persons become corrupted by the stage, much more than by novels, for seeing is believing. With tinsel and lace cut out in paper, all looks so very attractive, that is to say, for children and men who are not accustomed to business. And even when they want to represent poverty, their representation is generally a lie. A girl whose father has become a bankrupt, works to support her family. Very well; you see her on the stage, sewing, knitting, or embroidering. Now, do count

the stitches which she makes during a whole act. She talks, she sighs, she runs to the window, she does everything except work. Surely the family that can live by such work needs very little. This girl is, of course, the heroine. She has pushed some seducers down-stairs, and cries continually, “Oh, mother, mother!” and thus she represents Virtue. A nice virtue indeed, which takes a year in making a pair of stockings! Does not all this serve to give you false ideas of virtue, and of “labour for daily bread?” All folly and lies! Then her first lover, who was formerly a copying-clerk, but is now immensely rich, returns suddenly, and marries her. Lies again. He who has money does not marry a bankrupt’s daughter. You think that such a scene will do on the stage, as an exceptional case, but the audience will mistake the exception for the rule, and thus become demoralized by accustoming themselves to applaud on the stage, that which in the [7]world every respectable broker or merchant considers to be ridiculous madness. When I was

married, we were thirteen of us at the office of my father-in-law, Last and Co.,—and a good deal of business was done there, I can assure you. And now for more lies on the stage:—When the hero walks away in a stiff, stage-like manner, to serve his native country, why does the back-door always open of itself?

And then this Virtue rewarded!—oh, oh! I have been these seventeen years a coffee-broker, at No. 37 Laurier Canal, and I have had a great deal of experience, but I am always much shocked when I see the dear, good truth so distorted. Rewarded Virtue, forsooth! just as if virtue was a trade commodity! It is not so in the world, and it is very good that it is not so, for where would be the real merit if virtue were always rewarded? Why then always invent such shameful lies? There is, for instance, Lucas, the warehouse-porter, who had been in the employ of Last and Co.’s father,—the firm was then Last and Meyer, but the Meyers are no longer in it,—he was really an honest man, in my opinion. Never was a single coffee-bean missing; he went to church very punctually; and was a teetotaller. When my father-in-law was at his country seat at Driebergen, this man kept the house, the cash, and everything. Once the bank paid him seventeen guilders too much, and he returned them. He is now too old and gouty

to work, [8]and therefore starves, for our large business transactions require young men. Well, this Lucas has been a very virtuous man—but is he rewarded? Does a prince give him diamonds, or a fairy nice dinners? Certainly not; he is poor, and he remains poor, and that must be so. I cannot help him. We want active young men for our extensive business; but if I could do anything for him, his merit would be rewarded in an easy life, now that he is old. Then if all warehouse-porters, and everybody else became virtuous, all would be rewarded in this world, and there would remain no special reward for the good people hereafter. But on the stage they distort everything—turn everything into lies.