by Arthur Japin
“Whom have you come for?”
I could hear her sharp intake of breath. Even she was apprehensive now. She could think of nothing better to say than her name, which came out a little too loud. The archivist went to the door and ran his finger over the lock to inspect it for damage.
“Mr. Renselaar has gone out.”
“Oh no,” sighed Adeline, “no, he would never do a thing like that, not when I have come such a long way . . .”
From here on she enacted her scene just as she had planned, but the man was not easily swayed. He escorted us to Renselaar’s office. Finding it vacant and not wishing to leave us behind alone, he summoned his superior. Adeline whispered reassuringly that she had met her husband’s head of department on a previous occasion and that he would be easy to deal with, but when the short, thin man in question stood before her, the only sign of recognition he gave was that he dreaded a conversation with her. He was clearly nervous, and explained that this was an unforeseen circumstance, as the summons had come quite unexpectedly. He appreciated how distressing this must be for us, he said, and offered us a glass of water by way of appeasement. When this did not have the desired effect, he suggested we might join him and his wife in the leafy suburb of Weltevreden for luncheon.
“Alas, my poor nerves,” said Adeline. “They are shattered. I simply must take a rest . . . We were involved in a traffic accident only a moment ago. You can see the state we are in. You cannot expect us to go back into that disorderly crowd, it is unthinkable.”
“You may have the use of my carriage.”
“No sir, all we need is a little time to compose ourselves and recover from the bitter disappointment that the prince, at his advanced age, and myself have journeyed all the way from Buitenzorg to no avail . . .”
“Did you have any particular business to discuss with Mr. Renselaar?” the man enquired, addressing his words to me directly. “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”
I hesitated.
“I hardly think so,” Adeline broke in. “No, truly there is no other option than to take a rest here and then to embark on our return journey . . .”
“But madam, may I remind you that these premises are not open to the public.”
“And quite right too.” She leaned her parasol against the wall, pulled out her hat pin and started peeling off her gloves as if she had all the time in the world. The head of department lost hope. He sighed.
“Surely you are not suggesting that my husband would object to my presence in his office, among his own private possessions?”
“Oh no, it is just that our rules are rather strict.”
“There, look at that dear little clock, it was my gift to my husband for his fortieth birthday. And that engraving, and the writing pad—it is hand-tooled. Good heavens, half the accoutrements in this room were provided by me personally, and now I am not to be granted access.”
“Please do not take it amiss, madam, of course your husband would have no objection, but as it is I am responsible and my instructions are most stringent.”
Adeline affected indignation and threw me a meaningful look. I thought she was about to admit defeat. Then she winked at me. At the same time I watched her physical transformation into a frail old woman. She stooped, crooked her fingers, hunched her shoulders.
“I . . .” she groaned, veering round and collapsing on to the chair behind her husband’s desk.
“I wish . . .”
“Madam I beg you.” The head of department broke out into a cold sweat. “Do not excite yourself. Please go back to your home. I do not doubt that your husband will hasten to be with you as soon as his affairs are concluded, and that all will be duly explained. He will expect to find you at home when he returns.”
She gave him a tearful, imploring look. “He was loath to leave, and it was I who unclenched his fingers from the doorpost with my own hands . . .” She moaned softly. “. . . and I hung his father’s rings in his ears—as though preparing him for sacrifice . . .” In the bewildered silence that ensued she planted her elbows on the pile of papers lying on the desk in front of her and buried her face in her hands.
The head of department stepped forward to console her, but his courage failed him. He gave me a questioning, troubled look. I had recognized her words at once as coming from a play. On the way to Batavia she had bored me with her chatter about her role in the play currently being staged by the amateur dramatics society. She told me it was a great success in Holland; it was a fishermen’s drama, and she had been given the part of the fisherman’s wife. I shrugged, laughed sheepishly and tapped my index finger against my forehead.
“All this is most distressing to Mrs. Renselaar,” I said, for good measure.
Upon hearing my words Adeline rose, as if she were about to accept the inevitable. She stared at the head of department as if he had brought tidings of death, and mumbled soulfully: “My husband and our sons . . . now the only hope I have left is my cousin’s young son.”
At this the head of department stammered a brief apology and fled. Not only were we granted all the time we needed to recover from our exertions, we were also served tea and cake. Then Adeline bolted the door on the inside, unbuttoned her jacket and took out the little brass key to unlock the drawer of her husband’s desk.
Among the dossiers in the drawer there was only one with my name on the cover. It comprised some forty documents relating to my first years in Java. The earliest of these dated from September 1850 and contained information on my arrival, employ and temporary accommodation; the most recent (September 1857) was a transcript of my royal certificate of appointment as candidate mining engineer with an annuity of four hundred guilders, and a note to the effect that I was to be kept informed of any changes in the staff of the royal household, in keeping with my status as a prince of an ally of the kingdom of the Netherlands.
It turned out that my own letters, written in the intervening period, were included in the dossier. I recognized most of them at a glance from the handwriting. There were several reports I had submitted on my work and travels, but the majority were appeals to the successive governors-general to assign me to a more responsible position in the Dutch Indies: the early ones to Rochussen were politely and circumspectly phrased, but by the time I was addressing Duymaer van Twist the tone had become terse and strident. I did not spend too much of our precious time poring over these reminders of past ill feeling.
Far more interesting were the confidential reports on my activities submitted by others. Several of these had been drawn up by men I had trusted. They concerned both my performance as a public servant and my private life. As I was moderate in my ways then as I am now, and it was not and is not in my nature to give offence, the facts that were cited were not particularly striking. What did strike me, however, were the names of those who had filed the reports. Among the informers were neighbours and servants, an old friend, the postmaster at the mining department, and even my wine merchant. Now and then there was mention of a fee for providing information, but more often it had been volunteered.
The dossier did not appear to contain items of a more dramatic nature than this. I was beginning to think all our trouble had been for nothing, or that some minor incident had been blown out of all proportion by Adeline and her husband, when I came across a brief note from van Drunen himself. It was a copy, written in his own hand, of an official missive addressed to the minister of Colonies. In it he announced his intention to resign from his post and return to Holland. He explained his motives as follows:
[. . .] my concern for the fate of the princes of Ashanti, with whose removal to Holland I was charged. Ever since the tragic death of Prince Quame Poku at Elmina I have lived in fear for the well-being of the surviving prince, Mr. Aquasi Boachi. Having overcome considerable personal hardship, the latter is currently residing in Java where, unbeknownst to him, he is denied prospects of promotion. It is my belief that the wilful obstruction of any man’s advancement in life is a gross injustice.
Moreover, the fact that the authorities have ordained that the mandate regarding the prince’s career be treated as strictly confidential is inconsistent with my morals and therefore weighs on my conscience. It is for these reasons that I am requesting you herewith to [. . .]
In 1852 van Drunen, who yearned for tropical climes, had been promoted to a position of rank in Batavia for the remainder of his career by the Ministry of Colonies in The Hague. Although he had taught Kwame and me the principles of the Dutch language and also offered us guidance and support in the subsequent years, a close friendship had not developed between van Drunen and ourselves. He earned our confidence and always showed sincere concern for our welfare, but his loyalty to us was not exclusive. He owed allegiance to the kingdom of the Netherlands too, and thereby equally to the powers that had contrived our removal from our native land.
Indeed, I did not meet van Drunen more than twice in Batavia during the 1850s. On the first occasion our conversation was devoted to Kwame and very little else. On the second I informed him of the problems I was facing in Java. I asked him to speak to the minister on my behalf. He promised to do his utmost for me and even notified me of his initial steps in that direction. Soon afterwards, however, he was relieved of his post, and he repatriated without sending me a word of farewell. I was deeply disappointed by this.
Some fifteen years later he sent me a letter from Samarang in the Indies, telling me that he had taken up residence there as a private citizen. He was living in a settlement inhabited almost exclusively by former “recruits” from the African Gold Coast, whom he astonished with his intimate knowledge of their fatherland and customs. He was making plans to help these “black Hollanders,” who found themselves virtually destitute in their old age after serving out their contracted terms. He supported their manufacture of batik cloths, and was able to use his remaining contacts with officialdom to dispatch the occasional consignment to Elmina, where these cloths were in popular demand. He wrote that the profits from these ventures were transferred in full (he underlined the words himself) to the workers. He used his meagre monthly stipend to purchase medicines, and gave the youngest children in that community lessons in the Dutch language. Consequently he often thought of me, he said. He had spoken of me to his African friends and they wished to make my acquaintance.
I did not reply to this letter, nor to the two that followed. I had no desire to make an exhibition of myself. What could I have said to them? There was no further communication from van Drunen. I never saw him again.
Setting eyes on his letter of resignation after so many years made me realize how unfairly I had treated him. Not only had he sought attention for my case, he had even put his own career at risk on my account. Adeline noticed my bemusement. She leaned over my shoulder to read the letter and whispered breathlessly into my ear: “That’s it. The secret mandate.” It was only then that the significance of van Drunen’s letter dawned on me.
The remaining papers consisted of official documents pertaining to my activities in the colonial service, and I divided them between Adeline and myself. We were looking for any further allusions to what van Drunen termed “the mandate regarding the prince’s career.” We did not come across specific mention of it. However, we did find a note appended to one of my numerous applications for relocation bearing the words, “circumstances do not permit,” and another saying, “in vain, alas, given the mandate.” Our efforts were not fully rewarded—as usual when hunting for evidence—until the very last document. It was a brief message from Minister of Colonies Pahud to Governor-General Rochussen. With reference to a statement made on 24 July 1850 (a transcript of which was, curiously, missing from the dossier) he made the following comment:
With reference to your outspoken objections to the appointment of the Prince of Ashanti, you may rest assured that the exceptional measures adopted in confidential consultation with His Royal Highness cover all contingencies. Consequently I see no reason to reconsider the possibility of the Prince being posted to Batavia.
We returned home late to Buitenzorg. Mrs. Renselaar insisted on driving me home first. She had shown consideration for my mood throughout the journey by keeping silent. I thanked her for all her trouble.
“Well, we are not a great deal the wiser, are we,” she said, shaking my hand firmly. “Oh, it is intolerable!”
I asked her to wait a moment while I went inside to fetch the manuscript I had been working on. I entrusted the new instalment of my memoir to her. This time she accepted my offer without any histrionics.
“As for your jubilee celebration, if you would rather not . . .”
“Do as you see fit, I do not mind one way or the other.”
“In that case we’ll call the whole thing off.”
“After all the effort you have made?”
“All my effort was for you. I do not wish for your agreement merely as a favour to me.”
This was my chance, and I did not take it. In a moment of weakness I was glad to make her happy.
“Excellent,” she said with a sigh of relief, “because I have already decided on an appropriate date. The ninth of September, would that suit you?”
“One day is as good as another as far as I am concerned.”
“It is the date of your arrival in Java.”
“So it is.”
“At least, that is what is written in the documents.”
“Then it must be true.”
When she drove off I went into the house. Ahim made to serve me the food he had kept for me, but I had no patience and did not touch it. The papers I had secreted from the dossier were burning a hole in my pocket.
Although it was far too late to venture out again, I set off for the kampung. The suspense I had gone through in the day had aroused in me the energy of a young man. I longed for release, but when I was halfway there I struck across the fields. There was a full moon, the night was clear. I picked my way through the undergrowth past my gardens, until I reached the pool and sat down at the edge of the silver water. Like a child with a handful of stolen sweets, I did not dare inspect my prize until I was all alone.
There were two sheets, translated and copied by an army clerk. I had only skimmed over the opening lines in Mr. Renselaar’s office since they had no bearing on the facts we were looking for. But my immediate reaction had been that they should be in my possession, and not in a dossier. I had stuffed them into my trouser pocket when Adeline wasn’t looking.
To his Excellency Mr. Schomerus,
Governor of Elmina,
dated March second 1854.
I have received your kind letter regarding my son Kwasi Boarchi [sic], whom I sent to Engeland [sic] for schooling until his return home. I have been informed and have understood from your letter that he has declined to come home, and you suggest that I should not be too saddened by this turn of events; but in truth his absence is a great sadness to me, and since I long to see his face, I will be most grateful if you would be so kind as to write to his master requesting him to give my son leave to travel here to see my face and then to return to his place of work. I beg you to comply with my request only so that I may set eyes on him and his nature once more, in order that he may return to his work afterward.
Signed at Kumasi,
Kwaku Dua, Asantehene of Ashanti
Under these lines my father had not drawn a cross as he used to do in the old days, but had written his name in a childish scrawl.
No one had ever breathed a word to me about this plea from my father. I needed desperately to mull over the meaning of his message, but could not bring myself to reread it. The letters became blurred in the shimmer of the moonlight. My eyes were perhaps suffering from fatigue, but my blood remained restless. I decided to take a bath in the pool. I shed my clothes, which I folded carefully, hiding the crumpled letter deep among the folds of my trousers, at a safe distance from the water’s edge. The Asantehene had employed water-based ink, which is intolerant of moisture.
DUTCH EAST INDI
ES 1850–55
1
– Can what is foreign to us become our Fatherland? – And the Fatherland has become strange to you. – That is why my bleeding heart will not heal.
Goethe, Iphigenie auf Tauris
Bits of straw, the sweet fragrance of timber and drifts of powdery red earth were carried aloft by the harmattan. I sat on deck in the Gulf of Guinea, two and a-half days’ sailing from Dakar. The dry wind blowing out to sea brought us land-birds, white with yellow combs, just as Kwame had described in his first letter from Elmina. Although I had braced myself for this part of my voyage, I was suddenly overcome. I fell silent in mid-conversation. Linse and Lebret, in whose company I was travelling to the Indies, guessed the reason for my melancholy. They replenished my glass of port and left me to my musings.
On that day the Sarah Lydia was heading for São Tomé to take on water. At Linse’s instigation the ship’s captain dropped anchor some distance from the harbour, to ensure that I would not be able to see the African coastline. I enquired after the latitude of our position several times, but no one would tell me when we would sail past Elmina. I did not press for further information.
I felt no desire to visit Kwame’s grave. It was the end of May, three months after his death. He had returned to my heart. (Death sometimes brings someone closer than life. You carry with you for ever what was dear to you. Never again can love fail. There is nothing left to lose. Nothing left to ruin. Thus Death secures for ever the very thing he takes from us.)
Linse and Lebret had completed their training in London, where they and three other students from Delft were monitored by Cornelius de Groot. It was therefore clear to all concerned why I had chosen to complete my degree in Freiberg rather than in London.
