Max Havelaar (Siebenhaar)/Chapter 17
Saïdyah’s father had a buffalo with which he worked his field. After this buffalo had been taken from him by the District-Head of Parang-Koodyang, he was full of sadness, and never spoke a word for many days. For ploughing-time was drawing near, and it was to be feared that if the rice-field was not prepared early, seeding-time also would pass by, and in the end there would be no paddy to cut and store in the shed of the house.
I must here remark, for readers who know Java but do not know Bantam, that in this residency personal landownership exists, which is not the case elsewhere. Saïdyah’s father then was greatly distressed. He feared that his wife would lack rice, and also Saïdyah, who was still a child, and the younger brothers and sisters of Saïdyah.
Also the District-Head would doubtless cite him before the Assistant-Resident if he were behindhand in paying his land-rent, for there is a penalty for this.
Then Saïdyah’s father took a dagger which was an heirloom from his father. The dagger was not very beautiful, but there were silver bands round the sheath, and also on the point of the sheath a small silver plate. He sold this dagger to a Chinaman who lived in the chief township, and came home with twenty-four guilders, which is two pounds of English money, for which sum he bought another buffalo.
Saïdyah, who was then about seven years old, soon contracted a friendship with the new buffalo. Not inadvisedly do I say “friendship,” for it is indeed touching to see how the Javanese buffalo becomes attached to the little boy that watches and takes care of him. The strong animal willingly bows his heavy head to right or left or downward, according to the finger-pressure of the child that he knows, that he understands, that he has grown up with.
And such friendship little Saïdyah rapidly inspired in the new guest, whilst the encouragement of Saïdyah’s child-voice seemed to give greater strength even to the powerful shoulders of the strong animal, when it tore up the heavy clay of the soil and marked its passage in deep, sharp furrows. The buffalo turned round docilely when he reached the end of the paddock, and lost not an inch-breadth of the ground in his backward course ploughing the new furrow, which ever lay alongside the old one as though the rice-field were a garden-plot raked by a giant.
Next to this field lay those of Adinda’s father, the father of the child that was to marry Saïdyah. And when Adinda’s little brothers came to the border that lay between, at exactly the same moment as Saïdyah was also there with his plough, they called out to each other merrily, and in friendly rivalry praised the strength and obedience of their respective buffaloes. But I believe that of Saïdyah was the best, perhaps because he knew better than the others how to speak to it, for buffaloes are very sensitive to a friendly way of speaking.
Saïdyah was nine, and Adinda already six, before this buffalo was taken from Saïdyah’s father by the District-Chief of Parang Koodyang.
Saïdyah’s father, who was very poor, now sold to a Chinaman two silver curtain-clasps, heirlooms from the parents of his wife, for eighteen guilders. And for this money he bought a new buffalo.
But Saïdyah was heavy-hearted, for he knew from Adinda’s little brothers that the last buffalo had been driven to the head-centre, and he had asked his father whether he had not seen the animal when he was there to sell the curtain-clasps. To which question Saïdyah’s father had not wished to reply. Therefore he feared that his buffalo had been killed, as was the case with the other buffaloes which the District-Chief took from the people.
And Saïdyah cried much when he thought of the poor buffalo with which for two years he had been so closely associated. And for a long time he could not eat, for his throat tightened when he tried to swallow.
One must remember that Saïdyah was a child.
The new buffalo got to know Saïdyah, and very soon won in the affection of the child the place of its predecessor . . . too soon, really. For, alas, the impressions of our heart, impressions as in wax, are so easily smoothed out, to make room for other writing! However, though the new buffalo was not so strong as the former one . . . though the old yoke was too wide for its shoulders . . . yet the poor animal was as docile as its predecessor which had been killed, and if Saïdyah could no longer boast of the strength of his buffalo when meeting Adinda’s little brothers on the boundary-line, he maintained that no other exceeded his in obedience; and if the furrow did not run as straight as before, or if lumps of earth were passed unbroken, he gladly remedied this deficiency with his spade as far as he could. Besides, no buffalo had a hairtwist like his. The priest himself had said that there was luck in the course of the hairy vertebræ at the back of the shoulders.
One day, in the field, Saïdyah called out in vain to his buffalo to speed up more. The animal stopped dead. Saïdyah, annoyed at an obstinacy so great and especially so unaccustomed, could not refrain from uttering an insult. He exclaimed a.s. Anyone that has been in Java will understand me, and those who do not understand can only gain by my sparing them the explanation of a coarse expression.
Saïdyah, however, meant nothing evil. He only said it because he had so often heard it from others when they were dissatisfied with their buffaloes. But he need not have said it, for it was of no avail; his buffalo took not another step forward. He shook his head as if to throw off the yoke . . . one saw the breath coming from his nostrils . . . he stood panting, he trembled, he quivered . . . there was fear in his blue eye, and his upper lip was drawn back until the gums lay bare. . . .
“Run, run!” suddenly cried Adinda’s brothers. “Saïdyah, run! there is a tiger.”
And all undid the ploughing-yokes from their buffaloes, throwing themselves on the broad backs, and galloping away through rice-fields, across dykes, through mud, through scrub and bush and prairie-grass, by fields and roads. And when they rode panting and sweating into the village of Badoor, Saïdyah was not with them.
For when he, having freed his buffalo from the yoke, had mounted, like the others, to flee as they, an unexpected bound of the animal had made him lose his balance and thrown him to the ground. The tiger was very near. . . .
Saïdyah’s buffalo, driven forward by its own speed, rushed a few leaps past the spot where his little master awaited death. But only through its own speed, and not through its own will, had it gone past Saïdyah. For scarcely had it overcome the force that controls all matter, when it turned back, planted its clumsy body on its clumsy feet above the child like a roof, and turned its horned head to the tiger. The brute sprang . . . but it sprang for the last time. The buffalo caught it on his horns and only lost some flesh that the tiger tore out at the neck. The assailant lay on the ground with ripped-up belly . . . Saïdyah was saved. It was quite true that there had been luck in the hair-twist of that buffalo!
When this buffalo had been taken from Saïdyah’s father and killed . . .
I have told you, reader, that my story is monotonous.
. . . when this buffalo was killed, Saïdyah was twelve years old, and Adinda wove shawls and painted them with a pointed headpiece. She had already thoughts to work into the course of her paint-shuttle, and she painted sadness on the texture of her fabric, for she had seen Saïdyah very sad.
And Saïdyah’s father also was deeply grieved, but his mother most of all. For it was she who had healed the wound in the neck of the faithful animal that had brought home her child unhurt, when, after hearing the news told by Adinda’s little brothers, she had thought that Saïdyah had been carried off by the tiger. So often had she looked at that wound, thinking how deep the claw that entered so far into the tough thews of the buffalo would have been driven into the soft body of her child; and every time after she had laid fresh healing herbs on the wound, she had caressed the buffalo, and spoken some kindly words to it, so that the good and faithful animal might know how grateful a mother is! She now hoped with all her heart that the buffalo might have understood her, for then it would also have known the meaning of her tears when it was taken away to be killed, and it would have known that it was not Saïdyah’s mother who had ordered it to be killed.
Some time after this. Saïdyah’s father fled the country. For he greatly feared the punishment if he were not able to pay his land-rent, and he had no more heirlooms to buy a new buffalo with, as his parents had always lived in Parang Koodyang, and had therefore left him but little. And also the parents of his wife had always lived in the same district. After the loss of his last buffalo he had still kept going a few years by working with hired plough-beasts. But that is a very thankless form of labour, and especially galling to one who has been in possession of his own buffaloes. Saïdyah’s mother had died of grief; and then his father, in a despondent moment, ran away from Lebak and from Bantam, to look for work about Buitenzorg. He was flogged with the rattan cane for having left Lebak without a pass, and taken back by the police to Badoor. There he was thrown into the gaol because they took him to be mad, which would not have been altogether inexplicable, and because they feared that in a moment of half-madness he might run amuck or be guilty of some other misdeed. But he was not long in prison, for shortly after he died.
I do not know what became of the little brothers and sisters of Saïdyah. The little house where they had lived at Badoor was empty for awhile, and ere long it fell to pieces, as it was only built of bamboo and covered with palm-leaf. A little dust and dirt covered the spot where there had been much suffering. There are many such spots in Lebak.
Saïdyah was already fifteen when his father left Buitenzorg. He did not accompany him thither, because he carried greater projects in his mind. He had been told that in Batavia there were so many gentlemen who drove in bendies, a kind of tilbury, that he might find a place there as a bendie-boy, for which someone is usually chosen who is still young and not full-grown, so that he may not upset the balance of the two-wheeler by bearing with too much weight on the back. There was, he had been assured, with good conduct, much to be earned in such service. Perhaps in this manner he might even, within three years’ time, save enough money to buy two buffaloes. This prospect lured him. With proud step, as one who has big business in mind, he entered Adinda’s house after his father’s departure, and informed her of his plan.
“Just think,” he said, “when I return we shall be old enough to get married, and we shall have two buffaloes!”
“Very well, Saïdyah! I shall be glad to be married to you when you return. I shall spin, and weave shawls and skirts, and paint, and be very industrious all the time.”
“Oh, I believe you, Adinda! But . . . if I should find you married?”
“Saïdyah, you know very well that I shall marry no one. My father promised me to your father.”
“And you yourself?”
“I shall marry you, rest assured!”
“When I come back, I shall call from afar. . . .”
“Who will be able to hear that, when we are pounding rice in the village?”
“That is true. But, Adinda . . . Oh, yes, this is better: wait for me near the diati-wood, under the ketapan-tree, where you gave me the melatti-flower.”
“But, Saïdyah, how shall I know when I am to go and wait for you near the ketapan?”
Saidyah thought a moment and said: “Count the moons. I shall stay away thrice twelve moons . . . the present moon does not count. See, Adinda, cut a notch in your rice-block every new moon. When you shall have cut three times twelve notches, then the next following day I shall arrive under the ketapan. Promise that you will be there!”
“Yes, Saïdyah, I shall be under the ketapan near the diati-wood when you return.”
Saïdyah then tore a strip from his blue head-kerchief, which was very much worn, and he gave the little piece of linen to Adinda, that she might keep it as a pledge. And so he left her and Badoor.
He walked on for many days. He passed Rangkas-Betoong, that was not yet the chief centre of Lebak, and Waroong-Goonoong where the Assistant-Resident then lived, and the next day he saw Pandyglang, that lies there as in a garden. Yet another day and he arrived at Serang, and stood amazed at the splendour of so large a place with many houses, built of stone and roofed with red tiles. Saïdyah had never seen anything like it. He stayed there one day because he was tired, but at night in the coolness he went on, and came to Tangerang the following day, before the shadow had descended to his lips, although he wore the large straw hat which his father had left behind for him.
At Tangerang he bathed in the river near the ferry, and then rested in the house of an acquaintance of his father’s, who showed him how to plait straw hats, such as those that came from Manilla. He stayed there one day to learn this, for he thought it might afterwards enable him to earn money, in case he should not succeed in Batavia. The following day, towards nightfall, as it grew cool, he thanked his host very much, and travelled on. As soon as it was quite dark, so that no one should see it, he took out the leaf in which he kept the melatti Adinda had given him under the ketapan-tree. For he had become heavy-hearted at the thought that he would not see her for so long a time. The first day, and also the second, he had felt less deeply how very much he was alone, for his soul had been wholly preoccupied with the great idea of earning money to buy two buffaloes with, as his father had never had more than one, and his thoughts had been too strongly concentrated on the return-meeting with Adinda, leaving no room for very great sadness about their parting. He had bidden her farewell with over-exalted hopes, and his thoughts had connected that farewell with the ultimate reunion under the ketapan. For so great a part the prospect of that reunion played in his heart that, passing the tree on leaving Badoor, he felt almost joyful, as though they were already over, the six-and-thirty moons which divided him from that moment. It had seemed to him as if he had only to turn round as though returning from the voyage, to see Adinda waiting for him under the tree.
But the further he went away from Badoor, and the more he felt the terrible length of only one day, the more he began to think the thirty-six moons that lay before him a time of endless duration. There was something in his soul that made him stride along less quickly. He felt sadness in his knees, and though it was no despondency that overcame him, still it was melancholy, which is not far removed from despondency. He thought of turning back, but what would Adinda say to so little courage?
So he went on, although less rapidly than the first day. He held the melatti in his hand, and often pressed it against his breast. In these three days he had grown much older, and could not now understand how formerly he had been so calm, when yet Adinda was so close to him, and he could see her every time, and as long as he liked! For now he would not be calm if he could expect that presently she would stand before him. And also he did not understand how it was that after their parting he had not turned back once more to look at her just once again. Also he remembered how quite recently he had quarrelled with her about the cord she had spun for the kite of her little brothers, and which had broken because, so he held, there was a flaw in her weft, and this had lost them a bet with the children of Tjipooroot. “How had it been possible,” he thought, “to get angry with Adinda about this! For even if she had spun a flaw into the cord, and if the bet between Badoor and Tjipooroot had been lost through this, and not through the glass splinter so naughtily and dexterously thrown by little Djameen, who was hidden behind the hedge, should I even then have been right in behaving so harshly to her, and calling her unseemly names? How will it be if I die in Batavia without having asked her forgiveness for such great rudeness? Will it not be as though I were an evil person who flings bad names at a girl? And if people hear that I died in a strange land, will not everyone in Badoor say: ‘It is a good thing that Saïdyah died, for he opened a wide mouth at Adinda’?”
So then his thoughts took a course which differed widely from the previous exaltation, and involuntarily they expressed themselves first in half-words scarce audible, but soon in a monologue, and at last in the sorrowful chant of which I here give the translation. At first it had been my intention to write it in metre and rhyme, but like Havelaar I judge it more fitting to omit that corset.
I saw the great sea on the South Coast when I was there with my father to make salt;
If I die on the sea, and my body is thrown into the deep water, sharks will come.
They will swim round me, and ask ‘Which of us shall devour the dead body that sinks yonder through the water?’
I shall not hear.
I have seen the burning house of Pa-ansoo, that he himself had set afire because he was half-mad.
If I die in a burning house, the flaming timbers will fall on my body,
And outside the house there will be the hue and cry of people who throw water to quench the fire.
I shall not hear.
I have seen little Si-oonah fall from the klappa-tree when he plucked a klappa for his mother.
If I fall from a klappa-tree, I shall lie dead at its foot in the brushwood, like Si-oonah.
My mother will not weep for me, for she is dead. But others will cry with harsh-sounding voice, ‘Lo, there lies Saïdyah!’
I shall not hear.
I have seen the dead body of Pa-lisoo, who had passed away in old age, for his hair was white.
If I die in old age, with white hair, the weeping-women will stand round my body.
And loudly they will lament as the mourners around Pa-lisoo’s body, and the grandchildren also will cry with loud voices.
I shall not hear.
I have seen many at Badoor who died. They were wrapped in a white garment and buried in the ground.
If I die at Badoor, and they bury me outside the village, eastward against the hill, where the grass is high,
Then will Adinda’s footfall pass, and the hem of her garment will gently brush the grass in passing . . .
And I shall hear.”
Saïdyah arrived in Batavia. He asked a gentleman to take him into his service, which this gentleman did immediately, as he did not understand Saïdyah. For in Batavia people like to have servants who have not yet learnt Malay, and who are therefore not yet so corrupted as others who have been longer in touch with European civilization. Saïdyah soon learned Malay, but he behaved in an exemplary manner, for he thought ever of the new buffaloes that he wished to buy, and of Adinda. He grew tall and strong, because he ate every day, which was not always possible at Badoor. He was liked in the stables and would certainly not have been rejected if he had asked for the coachman’s daughter in marriage. His master also liked Saïdyah so much that he soon raised him to the position of house-servant. His wages were increased, and he was continually given presents, for the people were particularly well satisfied with his services. The mistress had read the novels of Sue, whose brief renown was so sensational, and she always thought of Prince Djalma when she saw Saïdyah. The young ladies also understood better than before how it was that the Javanese artist, Radhen Saleh, had created such an impression in Paris.
But they thought Saïdyah ungrateful when, after nearly three years’ service, he gave notice and asked for a certificate of good conduct. This, however, could not be refused, and Saïdyah set out for his native village with a happy heart.
He passed Pesing, where at one time Havelaar dwelt, long ago. But this Saïdyah did not know. And even if he had known, he carried in his soul other things altogether, that entirely occupied him. He counted the treasures that he brought home with him. In a bamboo roll he had his pass and the certificate of good conduct. In a small cylindrical case attached to a leather strap, something heavy seemed constantly to be tapping against his shoulder, but he liked to feel this. . . . I should think so! In it were thirty Spanish dollars, enough to buy three buffaloes with. What would Adinda say! And this was not all. On his back one saw the silvermounted sheath of a dagger which he wore in his belt. The hilt was no doubt of finely chiselled kamooning,[1] for he had wrapped it most carefully in a silk kerchief. And he had still more treasures. In the knot of the cloth round his loins he kept a stomacher of broad silver links with a golden fastening. It is true, the stomacher was short, but she was so slender . . . Adinda!
And attached to a cord round his neck, beneath his singlet, he carried a little silk bag containing some dried melatti.
Was it to be wondered that he did not delay at Tangerang longer than was necessary to visit the friend of his father who matted such dainty straw hats? Was it to be wondered that he had little to say to the girls he met on the road, who asked him “Whither and whence?” which is the greeting in these parts? Was it to be wondered that he no longer thought Serang so important looking, he who had come to know Batavia? That he no longer hid in the hedge as he had done three years before, when the Resident drove past, he that had seen the much greater lord who lives at Buitenzorg, and who is the grandfather[2] of the prince of Solo? Was it to be wondered that he paid little attention to the stories of people who walked with him part of the way and told him all the news of Bantan Kedool? That he scarce listened when he was told that the coffee-culture, after much unrewarded labour, had been entirely abandoned? That the District-Chief of Parang-Koodyang had been sentenced, for robbery on the public road, to fourteen days’ detention in the house of his father-in-law? That the head-centre had been removed to Rangkas-Betoong? That a new Assistant-Resident had arrived because the previous one had died a few months since? And how this new official had spoken at the first meeting of the sebah? How for some time now no one had been punished on any charge, and how it was hoped among the population that all that had been stolen would be returned or made good?
No, before his soul’s eye there were sweeter visions. He looked in the clouds for the ketapan-tree, as he was still too far to find it at Badoor. He grasped at the surrounding air, as though he would embrace the form that would be waiting for him under that tree. He pictured to himself Adinda’s face, her head, her shoulder . . . he saw the heavy hair-tress, so shining black, caught in its own loop, hanging down on her neck . . . he saw her large eyes, lustrous in dark reflection . . . the nostrils she so proudly drew up as a child, when he—how was it possible!—teased her, and the corner of her lips wherein she kept a smile. He saw her breast, that would now be swelling under the shawl . . . he saw how the garment which she herself had woven narrowly enclosed her hips, and, following the thigh in its curve, fell along the knee in beautiful waving lines on to the small foot.
No, he heard but little of what people told him. He heard very different notes. He heard how Adinda would say: “Be welcome, Saïdyah! I have thought of you while spinning and weaving, and while pounding the rice in the block that carries three times twelve notches made by my hand. Here I am under the ketapan, the first day of the new moon. Be welcome. Saïdyah, I will be your wife!”
That was the music which sounded in his ear, and prevented him from listening to all the news people told him on the way.
At last he saw the ketapan. Or rather he saw a dark space which covered many stars before his eyes. That must be the diati-wood, near the tree where he was to see Adinda again, next day at sunrise. He searched in the dark, and felt the stems of many trees. Soon he found a well-known unevenness on the south side of a tree, and laid his finger in a nick which Si-Panteh had cut in it with his hatchet, in order to exorcize the evil spirit who was the cause of the tooth-ache of Si-Panteh’s mother, shortly before the birth of his little brother. This was the ketapan he sought.
Yes, this indeed was the spot where for the first time he had seen Adinda with other eyes than the rest of his playfellows, because there for the first time she had refused to take part in a game that, after all, she had played with all the children, boys and girls, only a little while before. There she had given him the melatti.
He sat down at the foot of the tree, and looked up at the stars. And when one of them set, he took it as a greeting on his return to Badoor. And he wondered whether Adinda would now be asleep. And whether she had correctly marked the moons in her rice-block. It would grieve him so very much if she had missed one, as though it were not enough . . . six-and-thirty! And whether she had painted pretty shawls and skirts. And also he asked himself with some curiosity who might now be living in his fathers house. And his youth came back to him, and his mother, and how the buffalo had saved him from the tiger, and he could not help musing on what might have become of Adinda if that buffalo had been less faithful.
He particularly watched the setting of the stars in the west, and with every star that vanished over the horizon he calculated how the sun was again a little nearer to its rising in the east, and how much nearer he himself was to the meeting with Adinda.
For she was sure to come at the first gleam, nay, she would already be there at the glimmer of early dawn. . . . Ah! why had she not already come the day before?
It made him sad that she had not anticipated it, the glorious moment which for three years had shone before him with indescribable radiance. And unjust as he was in the selfishness of his love, it seemed to him that Adinda should have been there, waiting for him, who now complained—before the time already!—that he had to wait for her.
But he complained without cause. For still the sun had not yet risen, still the eye of day had not cast its first glance on the plain. Certainly, the stars were paling above, ashamed that soon there would be an end to their reign . . . and strange colours floated across the summits of the mountains, which appeared darker as they were outlined more sharply on a lighter background . . . and here and there through the clouds in the East sped something flaming—arrows of gold and fire shot hither and thither, parallel with the skyline—but anon they vanished and seemed to fall behind the impenetrable curtain that ever still hid the day from Saïdyah’s eyes.
Yet gradually lighter and lighter it grew around him. He already saw the landscape, and already he distinguished the comb of the klappa-wood in which Badoor lies hidden. . . . There slept Adinda.
No, she slept no longer! How could she sleep? Did she not know that Saïdyah would be waiting for her? Oh, surely, she had not slept all night! Doubtless the night-watcher had knocked at her door to ask why the lamp continued to burn in her little dwelling, and with a sweet laugh she had told him that a promise kept her awake to finish weaving the skirt she was working at, and that had to be ready for the first day of the new moon.
Or she had passed the night in darkness, sitting on her rice-block, and counting with eager finger, to see that for sure thirty-six deep notches were carved on it side by side. And she had amused herself with artful pretence of fright, imagining that perhaps she miscounted, and that perhaps one of them was still wanting, so that again, and still again, and every time she might delight in the glorious certainty that without a shadow of doubt three times twelve moons had passed by since Saïdyah saw her for the last time.
She also, seeing it already grow so light, would strain her eyes with vain endeavour to bend her glances beyond the horizon, that they might meet the sun, the laggard sun, that tarried . . . tarried . . .
Then came a line of bluish red, that fixed itself upon the clouds, and their rims grew light and glowing, and the lightning flashed, and again fiery arrows shot through the expanse, but this time they did not fall, they settled firmly on the dark background, and communicated their glow in ever larger and larger circles, and met crossing, swinging, winding, straying, and they united into fire sheaves, and flashed in golden gleams on a sky of nacre, and there were red, and blue, and yellow, and silver, and purple, and azure in it all . . . O, God! that was the dawn; that was the coming of Adinda!
Saïdyah had not learnt to pray, and it would have been a pity to teach him, for holier prayer and thanksgiving more fervent than was found in the speechless ecstasy of his soul would be impossible to express in human language.
He wished not to go to Badoor. The actual meeting with Adinda in itself appeared to him less glorious than the certainty that presently he would meet her again. He sat down at the foot of the ketapan, and let his eyes stray about the landscape. Nature smiled on him and seemed to bid him welcome as a mother her returned child. And just as such a one depicts her joy by a deliberate remembrance of past sorrow in showing what she had preserved as a keepsake during absence, thus also Saïdyah derived pleasure from seeing again so many spots that had witnessed his short life. But however much his eyes or his thoughts might wander around, every time his glance and his longing returned to the path that leads from Badoor to the ketapan. All that his senses became aware of bore the name Adinda. He saw the precipice on the left, where the earth is so yellow, and where once a young buffalo sank into the depth; there the villagers had come together to remove the animal—for it is no small matter to lose a young buffalo—and they had let each other down by strong rattan cords. Adinda’s father had been bravest . . . Oh, how she had clapped her hands, Adinda!
And yonder, on the other side, where the small clump of coco-palms waves above the huts of the village, somewhere there Si-oonah had fallen out of a tree and died. How his mother had cried: “Because Si-oonah was still so small,” she wailed . . . as though she would have been less grieved if Si-oonah had been bigger! But it is true that he was small, for he was smaller and weaker even than Adinda.
No one came along the little road that led from Badoor to the tree. Presently she would come: Oh, certainly . . . it was still so early!
Saïdyah saw a badying[3] hopping to and fro with sportive nimbleness about the stem of a klappa-tree. The little creature—the vexation of the owner of the tree, yet so charming in its appearance and movements—clambered up and down indefatigably. Saïdyah saw it and forced himself to keep looking at it, because this gave some rest to his thoughts after the strenuous labour they had been engaged in since sunrise . . . rest from the exhausting strain of waiting. Anon his impressions took the form of words, and he sang what was passing in his soul. I would sooner read his song to you in Malay, this Italian of the East, but here is the translation:
In the klappa-tree. He climbs, descends, he frolics to right and left,
He goes round the tree, leaps, falls, rises and falls again:
He has no wings, and yet is swift as a bird.
Doubtless you will find the food you seek . . .
But I sit lonely near the diati-wood,
Waiting for the food of my heart.
Long has he returned to the comfort of his nest . . .
But ever my soul
And my heart are bitter with sadness . . . Adinda!”
Still there was no one on the path that leads from Badoor to the ketapan.
Saïdyah’s glance fell on a butterfly that seemed to rejoice because it was growing warm.
His tiny wings shine like a many-tinted flower.
His little heart loves the blossom of the kenari:
He surely seeks his sweet-scented lover!
Doubtless you will find what you seek . . .
But I sit lonely near the diati-wood,
Waiting for the love of my heart.
The kenari-blossom he so much loves . . .
But ever my soul
And my heart are bitter with sadness . . . Adinda!”
And there was no one on the path that led from Badoor to the tree.
The sun was already rising high . . . there was already heat in the air.
High above the waringi-hill!
Too warm she feels, and wishes to sink down
To sleep in the sea as in the arms of a husband.
What you seek you will surely find . . .
But I sit lonely near the diati-wood,
Waiting that my heart may find rest.
And be asleep in the sea, while all is dark . . .
And still my soul
And my heart will be bitter with sadness . . . Adinda!”
Still there was no one on the road that leads from Badoor to the ketapan.
When stars no more shall glitter,
When the melatti is no longer sweet-scented,
When there are no more sad hearts;
Nor wild beasts in the forest . . .
When the sun shall turn on her path,
And the moon forget East and West . . .
If then Adinda has still not come,
Then an angel with bright glowing wings
Shall come to the earth to find him that stayed behind.
Then shall my body lie under the ketapan. . . .
My soul is bitter with sadness . . . Adinda!”
Still there was no one on the road that led from Badoor to the ketapan.
He will show it to his brothers with his finger:
His rigid mouth kisses a melatti-flower.
Come, let us lift him up and take him to heaven,
Who waited for Adinda until he died!
He surely ought not to be left behind,
Whose heart had the strength to love so deeply!’
To call Adinda, whom my heart loves . . .
Once more I shall kiss the melatti
Given to me by her . . . Adinda . . . Adinda!”
Oh, no doubt she had fallen asleep towards dawn, tired of keeping awake through the night, of keeping awake through the length of several nights! No doubt she had not slept for weeks: that was it!
Should he arise and go to Badoor? No! Could he let it appear as though he had a doubt of her coming?
Suppose he called the man yonder who was driving his buffalo to the field? But that man was too far. And besides, Saïdyah wished not to speak about Adinda, not to ask after Adinda . . . he wished to meet her alone, her first! Oh, doubtless, doubtless she would soon come now!
He would wait, wait . . .
But if she were ill, or . . . dead?
Like a wounded deer Saïdyah flew up the path that leads from the ketapan to the village where Adinda lived. He saw nothing and heard nothing, and yet he might have heard something, for there were people standing in the road at the entrance to the village, who called: “Saïdyah! Saïdyah!”
But . . . was it his haste, his passion, which made him unable to find Adinda’s house? Already he had rushed on to the end of the road where the village stops, and like a madman he returned, and beat his forehead because he had been able to pass her house without seeing it. But again he was at the entrance—and, my God, was it a dream? again he had not found Adinda’s house! Once more he flew back, and all at once he stood still, grasped his head with both his hands, as if to press out of it the madness that came over him, and called loudly: “Drunk, I am drunk!”
And the women of Badoor came out of their houses, and with pity saw poor Saïdyah standing there, for they recognized him, and understood that he was looking for Adinda’s house, and they knew that there was no house of Adinda in the village of Badoor.
For when the District-Chief of Parang-Koodyang had taken the buffalo of Adinda’s father . . .
I have told you, reader, that my story is monotonous.
. . . then Adinda’s mother had died with fretting. And her baby sister had died because she had no mother to suckle her. And Adinda’s father feared the punishment if he did not pay his land-rent. . . .
I know it, I know it, my story is monotonous!
. . . Adinda’s father had gone away from the country, and had taken Adinda with him, and her brothers. But he had heard that Saïdyah’s father had been punished at Buitenzorg with rattan-strokes, because he had left Badoor without a pass. And therefore Adinda’s father had not gone to Buitenzorg, nor to Krawang, nor to the Preanger, nor to the Batavian out-districts . . . he had gone to Tjilang-Kahan, the district of Lebak which borders on the sea. There he had hidden in the woods and awaited the arrival of Pa-Ento, Pa-Lontah, Si-Ooniah, Pa-Ansioo, Abdool-Isma, and yet a few others who had been robbed of their buffaloes by the District-Chief of Parang-Koodyang, and who all feared the punishment if they did not pay their land-rent. There, during the night, they had seized a fishing-prao, and had put out to sea. They had steered a westerly course, keeping the land to the right of them as far as Java-Point. Thence they had steered northwards until they saw before them Tanah-itam, that the European sailors call Princes Island. They had sailed round the eastern coast of that island, and then they had made for Kaiser’s Bay, taking their bearings by the high point in the Lampongs. This at any rate was the route that people in Lebak whispered into each other’s ears whenever there was talk of official buffalo-theft and unpaid land-rent.
But Saïdyah, half dazed, did not clearly understand what they told him. He even did not quite grasp the tidings of his fathers death. There was a dinning in his ears as though someone was beating a gong in his head. He felt the blood forced with jerks through the veins at his temples, that threatened to burst under the pressure of so severe an expansion. He did not speak, and stared around with a vacant look without seeing what was near and about him, and at last he burst into ghastly laughter.
An old woman took him along to her little house, and looked after the poor crazy one. Soon he no longer laughed so horribly, but yet he did not speak. Only during the night those who shared the hut with him were startled awake by his voice, when he sang in a toneless manner—“I know not where I shall die.” Some of the inhabitants of Badoor put money together to pay for a sacrifice to the alligators of the Tjioodyoong for the recovery of Saïdyah, who was looked upon as demented.
But demented he was not.
For one night when the moon shone brightly, he rose from his stretcher, and stole softly out of the house, and searched for the place where Adinda had lived. It was not easy to find, as so many houses had fallen into ruins. But he seemed to recognize the place from the width of the angle which some of the lines of light between the trees formed in meeting his eye, as the sailor takes his bearings from certain beacons or from prominent mountain-heights.
Yes, it must be there . . . there it was that Adinda had lived!
Stumbling over half-decayed bamboos and fragments of the fallen roof, he cleared for himself a way to the sanctuary he sought. And indeed, he still found portions of the upright fence next to which Adinda’s stretcher had stood, and stuck in this fence there was still the bamboo pin on which she had hung her garment when she lay down to sleep. . . .
But the stretcher had fallen in like the house, and was almost decayed to dust. He picked up a handful of it, pressed it to his open lips, and breathed very deeply. . . .
Next day he asked the old woman who had looked after him where the rice-block was that had stood on the ground of Adinda’s house. The woman was rejoiced to hear him speak, and went all over the village to find that block. When she was able to tell Sadyah who was the new owner, he followed her silently, and, taken to the rice-block, he counted on it thirty-two carved notches. . . .
Then he gave the old woman as many Spanish dollars as would pay for a buffalo, and left Badoor. At Tjilangkahan, he bought a fisherman’s prao, and with it, after a few days’ sailing, reached the Lampongs, where the rebels resisted the Dutch Government.
He joined a band of Bantammers, not so much for the purpose of fighting as for that of finding Adinda. For he was of a gentle nature, and more susceptible to sorrow than to bitterness.
One day when the rebels had been again defeated, he wandered about in a village that had just been taken by the Dutch army, and that therefore was in flames. Saïdyah knew that the band which had there been annihilated had consisted largely of Bantammers. Like a ghost he roamed about in the huts that were not yet entirely destroyed by the fire, and found the dead body of Adinda’s father with a klewang-bayonet wound in the breast. Next to him Saïdyah saw the three murdered brothers of Adinda, youths, almost children yet, and a little farther the body of Adinda, naked, horribly mutlated. . . .
A narrow strip of blue linen had entered into the gaping breastwound that appeared to have ended a prolonged struggle. . . .
Then Saïdyah ran towards some Dutch soldiers who with levelled muskets drove the last surviving rebels into the fire of the burning houses. He threw himself on the broad-sword bayonets, pressed forward with all his might, and with a final effort pushed back the soldiers until the bayonets pierced him to the hilts.
And shortly after there was great jubilation in Batavia on account of the latest victory which again had added so many laurels to those already won by the Dutch-Indian army. And the Governor-General wrote to the Motherland that peace had been restored in the Lampongs. And the King of the Netherlands, advised by his Ministers, again rewarded so much heroism with many orders of knighthood.
And probably in the Churches on Sunday, or at the prayer-meetings, there rose to heaven, from the hearts of the pious, prayers of thanksgiving on learning that the “Lord of Hosts” had again fought under the banner of The Netherlands. . . .