I have made the conclusion of the story of Saïdyah shorter than I might have done if I had felt inclined to a description of horrors. The reader will note how I dwelt on the account of my hero’s watch under the ketapan, as though I feared the approach of the grievous dénouement, on which aversion made me touch only lightly. And yet this was not my intention when I began to write about Saïdyah. For at the outset I feared that I should need stronger colouring to move the reader with the description of such strange conditions. But little by little I realized that it would be an insult to my public to believe that I ought to have spilt more blood on my picture.
And yet I might have done so, for I have before me documents . . . but no: I will rather make a confession.
Yes, a confession, reader! I do not know whether Saïdyah loved Adinda. Nor whether he went to Batavia. Nor whether he was murdered in the Lampongs with Dutch bayonets. I do not know whether his father succumbed in consequence of the rattan-scourging he received for having left Badoor without a passport. I do not know whether Adinda counted the moons by notches in her rice-block. . . .
All this I do not know!
But I know more than all this. I know and I can prove that there were many Adindas and many Saïdyahs, and that what is fiction in a particular case is truth in general. I have said that I can give the names of persons who, like the parents of Saïdyah and Adinda, were driven out of their country by oppression. It is not my object to give in this work statements such as would be required before a Court of Justice sitting to pronounce a verdict on the manner in which Dutch authority is exercised in India, statements that would only have force as evidence for those who had the patience to read them through with attention and interest, which cannot be expected from a public that reads for diversion. For this reason, instead of dry names of persons and places, with dates, instead of a copy of the list of thefts and extortions which lies before me, instead of these I have endeavoured to give a sketch of what may pass in the hearts of the poor people who are robbed of that which has to serve for their maintenance, or I have even only allowed this to be guessed, fearing that I might be too greatly mistaken in delineating emotions which I never experienced.
But as to the main point? Oh, that I were but summoned to prove what I have written! Oh, that they might say: “You have invented this Saïdyah . . . he never sang that song . . . no Adinda ever lived at Badoor!” But then also, might it be said with the power and the desire to do justice, as soon as I had given the proofs that I am not a slanderer!
Is the parable of the good Samaritan a lie, because perhaps no robbed traveller was ever received in a Samaritan house? Is the parable of the Sower a lie, because no husbandman would cast his seed on a rock? Or—coming down to a level nearer to my book—may one deny the truth which is the main point in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, because perhaps there never was an Evangeline? Shall it be said to the writer of that immortal plea—immortal, not on account of art or talent, but because of its tendency and the impression made by it—shall it be said to her: “You have lied, the slaves are not ill-treated, for . . . there is untruth in your book: it is a novel”? Was not she also compelled to give, instead of an enumeration of dry facts, a story that clothed those facts, so that the realization of the need of reform might penetrate to the hearts? Would her book have been read, if she had given it in the form of a court-case? Is it her fault—or mine—that the truth, in order to gain access, has so often to borrow the guise of a lie?
And to others who will perhaps contend that I have idealized Saïdyah and his love, I must put the question: “How can you know this?” For is it not a fact that only very few Europeans consider it worth while to condescend to an observation of the emotions of the coffee- and sugar-producing machines we call “Natives”? But even suppose their remarks were well-founded, he that adduces such considerations as a proof against the main tendency of my book gives me a great victory. For, translated, these considerations are as follows: “The evil you combat does not exist, or not in so high a degree, because the Native is not like your Saïdyah . . . there is in the ill-treatment of the Javanese not so great an evil as would be the case if you had drawn your Saïdyah more accurately. This Soondanese does not sing such songs, loves not thus, feels not thus, and therefore . . .”
No, Minister for the Colonies, no, Governor-General retired from active service, it is not that which you have to prove! You have to prove that the population is not ill-treated, apart from the question whether or no there are sentimental Saïdyahs among the population. Or would you dare maintain that it was lawful to steal buffaloes from people who do not love, who sing no melancholy songs, who are not sentimental?
If an attack were made from a literary point of view, I should defend the accuracy of my drawing of Saïdyah; but as a question of politics I would at once concede any strictures on this accuracy, in order to prevent the main argument from being shifted to wrong premises. It is all the same to me whether I am considered an incompetent artist, provided the admission be made that the ill-treatment of the native is: outrageous! For that is the word used in the note of Havelaar’s predecessor, and shown to Controller Verbrugge: a note which I have in front of me.
But I have other proof! And this is fortunate, for even Havelaar’s predecessor might have been mistaken.
Alas! if he was mistaken, he was severely punished for his mistake. He was murdered.