Max Havelaar (Nahuijs)/Chapter 2
Business is slack on the Coffee Exchange. The Spring Auction will make it right again. Don’t suppose, however, that we have nothing to do. At Busselinck and Waterman’s trade is slacker still. It is a strange world this: one gets a deal of experience by frequenting the Exchange for twenty years. Only fancy that they have tried—I mean Busselinck and Waterman—to do me out of the custom of Ludwig Stern. As I do not know whether you are familiar with the Exchange, I will tell you that Stern is an eminent coffee-merchant in Hamburg, who always employed Last and Co. Quite accidentally I found that out—I mean that bungling business of Busselinck and Waterman. They had offered to reduce the brokerage by one-fourth per cent. They are low fellows—nothing else. And now look what I have done to stop them. Any one in my place would perhaps have written to Ludwig Stern, “that we too would diminish the brokerage, and that we hoped for consideration on account of the long services of Last and Co.”
I have calculated that our firm, during the last fifty years, has gained four hundred thousand guilders by Stern. Our connexion dates from the beginning of the continental system, when we smuggled Colonial produce and such like things from Heligoland. No, I won’t reduce the brokerage.
I went to the Polen coffee-house, ordered pen and paper, and wrote:—
“That because of the many honoured commissions received from North Germany, our business transactions had been extended”—[it is the simple truth]—“and that this necessitated an augmentation of our staff”—[it is the truth: no more than yesterday evening our bookkeeper was in the office after eleven o’clock to look for his spectacles];—“that, above all things, we were in great want of respectable, educated young men to conduct the German correspondence. That, certainly, there were many young Germans in Amsterdam, who possessed the requisite qualifications, but that a respectable firm”—[it is the very truth],—“seeing the frivolity and immorality of young men, and the daily increasing number of adventurers, and with an eye to the necessity of making correctness of conduct go hand in hand with correctness in the execution of orders”—[it is the truth, observe, and nothing but the truth],—“that such a firm—I mean Last and Co., coffee-brokers, 37 Laurier Canal—could not be anxious enough in engaging new hands.”
All that is the simple truth, reader. Do you know that the young German who always stood at the Exchange, near the seventeenth pillar, has eloped with the daughter of Busselinck and Waterman? Our Mary, like her, will be thirteen years old in September.
“That I had the honour to hear from Mr. Saffeler”—[Saffeler travels for Stern]—“that the honoured head of the firm, Ludwig Stern, had a son, Mr. Ernest Stern, who wished for employment for some time in a Dutch house.”
“That I, mindful of this”—[here I referred again to the immorality of employés, and also to the history of that daughter of Busselinck and Waterman; it won’t do any harm to tell it],—“that I, mindful of this, wished, with all my heart, to offer Mr. Ernest Stern the German correspondence of our firm.”
From delicacy I avoided all allusion to honorarium or salary; yet I said:—
“That if Mr. Ernest Stern would like to stay with us, at 37 Laurier Canal, my wife would care for him as a mother, and have his linen mended in the house”—[that is the very truth, for Mary sews and knits very well],—and in conclusion I said, “that we were a religious family.”
The last sentence may do good, for the Sterns are Lutherans. I posted that letter. You understand that old Mr. Stern could not very well give his custom to Busselinck and Waterman, if his son were in our office. I am very anxious for a reply. But to return to my book. Some time ago I walked one evening through Kalver Street, and stopped looking into a shop where a grocer was diligently sorting a quantity of—
- “Java middling, fine, yellow, Cheribon coffee, slightly damaged,”
which interested me much, for I am very inquisitive. Suddenly I observed a gentleman standing next to me in front of a bookseller’s shop, whom I thought I had seen before, though I endeavoured in vain to recollect him. He, too, seemed to recognise me; for every moment we looked at one another. I must confess, that I really was too much interested in the adulterated coffee immediately to observe, what I saw afterwards, viz., that his clothes were very shabby; otherwise I should not have taken any notice of him; but all of a sudden I thought, perhaps he is a commercial traveller for a German firm, which is in need of a trustworthy broker. He had rather a German face, and appeared something of a traveller too; he was very fair, with blue eyes, and had something about him which made you think that he was a foreigner. Instead of a respectable winter-coat he wore a shawl or plaid, and looked as if he had just ended a long journey. I thought I saw a customer, and gave him an address card, “Last and Co., Coffee-brokers, 37 Laurier Canal.” He took it, and holding it near the gaslight looked at it, and said, “I thank you, but I was mistaken; I thought I had the pleasure of seeing an old school-fellow, but. . . Last. . . that is not the right name.”
“Excuse me,” I said, for I am always polite, “I am Mr. Drystubble—Batavus Drystubble; Last and Co. is the firm, coffee-brokers, at No. 37 Laurier Canal.”
“Well, Drystubble, don’t you know me? Look me straight in the face.”
The more I looked him in the face, the more I remembered having seen him before; but, strange to say, his face made an impression on me as if I smelt foreign perfumes. Do not laugh at that, reader; by and by you will see how that was. I feel quite assured that he had not a drop of perfumery about him, and yet I smelt something very strong, something which reminded me ofthen I knew him!
“Was it you,” I said, “who rescued me from the Greek?”
“To be sure,” said he, “and how are you?”
I told him that we were thirteen of us in our office, and that we had plenty to do, and then I asked him how he had got on, which I felt quite sorry for afterwards, for it appeared that his pecuniary circumstances were not prosperous, and I dislike poor people, because it is for the most part their own fault, as the Lord would not forsake a person who had served Him faithfully. If I had only said, “We are thirteen of us,” and “I wish you good-night,” then I should have got rid of him; but these questions and replies made it every minute more difficult to shake him off. However, I must confess, that if I had shaken him off you would not have had this book to read, for it owes its existence to that meeting! I like to look at the bright side of everything, and those who do not are discontented creatures: I can’t bear them. Yes, yes, it was the same person who had rescued me out of the clutches of the Greek! Don’t think, however, that I had been taken prisoner by pirates, or that I had had a brawl in the Levant. I have told you already that I went, after my marriage, with my wife to the Hague, where we saw the Museum, and bought flannel in Veene Street,—the only excursion that my extensive business at Amsterdam ever allowed me. No; it was on my account that he gave a Greek a bloody nose, for always interfering with other people’s business. It was in the year 1834 I think, and in September, the annual fair-time at Amsterdam. As my parents intended to make a clergyman of me, I learned Latin. Afterwards, I often wondered why you must understand Latin to say in Dutch, “God is good.” Enough, I went to the Latin school, now called the Gymnasium, and there was the fair,—in Amsterdam, I mean. On the Wester Market were booths; and if you, reader, are an Amsterdammer, and about my age, you will remember that in one of them was a most beautiful girl with black eyes, dressed as a Greek; her father too was a Greek, or at least he had the appearance of a Greek. They sold all sorts of perfumes. I was just old enough to think the girl very beautiful, without having the courage to speak to her. Such an attempt would have been fruitless; for a girl of eighteen thinks a boy of sixteen a child, and there she is quite right. Yet we schoolboys always went to the Wester Market to see that girl.
Now, he who stood before me with the plaid was once with us, though some years younger than the rest, and therefore too childish to look at the Grecian girl; but he was dux of our class,—for he was very clever, that I must confess,—and he was very fond of playing, romping, and fighting; therefore he was with us. While we looked from a distance at the Grecian girl (I think we were ten of us), and deliberated how we should set about making acquaintance with her, we made up our minds to put our money together to buy something. But then it was very difficult to know who should be so bold as to speak to the girl. Every one liked it, but nobody dared attempt it. We cast lots, and I was chosen. Now, I confess that I do not like to brave dangers; I am a husband and a father, and think every one who braves danger to be a fool: this you may read in the Bible. It is a great satisfaction for me to find that I think about danger and suchlike things exactly as I did many years ago. I have still the same opinion as I had on that very evening when I stood close to the Greek’s booth, with the twelve pence we had put together in my hand. But because of false shame, I dared not say that I had not the courage to do it; besides, I had to advance against my will, for my companions pushed me, and soon I was standing before the booth.
I did not see the girl; I saw nothing. All became green and yellow before my eyes. . . I stammered out the First Aorist of I do not know which verb. . .
“Plait-il?” said she. I recovered a little and continued,—“Μῆνιν ἀεῖδε, θεά,” and “that Egypt was a present from the Nile.”. . . I feel quite sure that I should have made her acquaintance if one of my companions had not at that moment given me such a punch in the back that I stumbled with much violence against the booth. I felt a grasp at my neck, a second one much lower, and before I had time to think about my position, I was inside the tent with the Greek, who told me in very intelligible French, that I was a “gamin,” and that he would call the “police.” Now, I was very near the girl, but it gave me no pleasure at all. I cried, and prayed for mercy, for I was much afraid. But there was no help for it; the Greek took hold of my arm, and kicked me. I looked for my comrades. We had just read that morning about Scævola, who put his hand in the fireand in our Latin themes we thought it so fine and so elevatedPooh! nobody stayed to put his hand in the fire for me!! So I thought. But all of a sudden, our friend of the Plaid, or Shawlman, as we shall call him, rushed through the back entrance into the booth. He was then neither tall nor strong, and only thirteen years old, but he was a brave and nimble little fellow. I still see the sparkling of his eyes; he gave the Greek a blow with his fist, and I was saved. Afterwards I heard that the Greek drubbed him soundly, but as I have a steady principle never to meddle with other people’s business, I ran away immediately, and so I did not see it.
That is the reason why his face reminded me so much of perfumes, and how easy it is in Amsterdam to quarrel with a Greek.
Afterwards, whenever that man was with his booth on the Wester Market, I always went elsewhere to amuse myself.
As I am very fond of philosophical observations, I must be allowed to remark how strangely all things hang together in this world. If the eyes of that girl had been lighter, if her tresses had been shorter, or the boys had not pushed me against the booth, you would not now be reading this book: therefore be thankful for all that happened. Believe me, everything in the world is good, as it is, and those discontented men who are always full of complaints are not my friends. There you have Busselinck and Waterman. . . ; but I must go on, for I have to finish my book before the great Spring Coffee Auction. To speak the truth—for I like truth—I felt it very unpleasant to meet that person again. I saw in a moment that he was not an acquaintance to be proud of. He looked very pale, and when I asked him what o’clock it was, he didn’t know! These things a man observes who has frequented the Exchange for twenty years or so, and transacted business there.I’ve witnessed many a crash.
I thought he would turn to the right, and therefore I went to the left; but, lo, he too turned to the left, and so I was in for a conversation with him; but I bore in mind that he did not know what o’clock it was, and perceived at the same time that his coat was buttoned up to his chin, which is a very bad sign, so I did not speak much. He told me that he had been in India, that he was married, and had children. All very well; but this was not very interesting to me. At the Kapelsteeg,[1]—I never before went through that steeg,[2] because it is not considered respectable,—but this time I intended to turn to the right, and pass through the Kapelsteeg,—I waited till that little street was just behind us, to make him understand that his way was straight on, and then I said very politely—for I am always polite: one never knows whether he may not afterwards want to use a person:—“I am very much pleased that I have seen you again, Sir, . . . and. . . and, good-bye. . . I have to go this way.” Then he looked like an idiot at me and sighed, and all of a sudden took hold of one of the buttons of my coat. . . “Dear Drystubble,” said he, “I have to ask you something.”
I trembled all over. He did not know what o’clock it was, and had to ask me something! Of course I replied that “I had no time to spare, and had to go to the Exchange,” though it was evening;—but if you have frequented the Exchange for some twenty years. . . and a person asks you something without knowing what o’clock it is. . . I disengaged the button, bade him farewell in a polite manner—for I am always polite—and went through the Kapelsteeg, which I otherwise never do, because it is not fashionable, and fashionableness I like above all things. I hope that nobody saw me.