by Arthur Japin
They attempted to distract my thoughts with questions concerning my studies in Germany and my knowledge of the minerals and mines, and the geological research I had undertaken. They were particularly interested to hear about my relations with the famous Professor Cotta, whose theories they had studied in London without ever having met the man. I was able to supply them with some noteworthy information regarding my mentor. But on the whole our experiences were not dissimilar, although the focus of my graduate studies had been more practical and theirs more academic. They conceded that the training I had received would be the more directly applicable in the Indies. For themselves they envisaged working in administrative positions. All three of us had entered the service of the Ministry of Colonies as candidate-engineers before sailing east.
“I have heard,” Lebret said, “that you have been given the designation ‘extraordinary’ following your title. ‘Candidateengineer extraordinary.’ ”
“Yes, that is what it says in my certificate of appointment.”
“And what does it mean?”
“I don’t know. I think . . .”
“What did you expect?” Linse interrupted. “That they would treat Aquasi the same way as ourselves? You are ordinary, Lebret. Utterly ordinary. I am slightly less so. But Aquasi . . . our Aquasi is extraordinary. Always has been. And always will be.” He meant to be kind.
“Nonsense,” I said shamefacedly.
“I was just wondering what exactly makes him different.”
“Royal blood,” Linse said impatiently, as if he had done enough explaining. He was already a little tipsy, but poured himself another drink. Lebret held out his glass, too.
“Or is it something to do with your degree? Aquasi, did you graduate with first class honours?”
“But I got a first too,” said Linse. “You aren’t going to deny that, are you? My first is as good as anyone else’s, make no mistake.”
“I was just wondering. The designation. What it means.”
“It didn’t occur to me to query it,” I replied. “I assumed that the same terms applied to us all.”
“Never mind.” Linse was getting bored with the conversation. “ ‘Extraordinary’ sounds pretty grand to my ears. Pretty grand.”
“Right you are. It sounds good, damned good.”
“And extraordinary service demands extraordinary remuneration. Be sure to remind them of that, Aquasi.”
Lebret in particular looked forward to life as a bachelor in colonial service. For the first few months, we fancied, we would have to familiarize ourselves with the civil administration at the colonial capital. Then we would have an opportunity for an extensive tour of the archipelago in connection with our independent field studies. We would be expected to publish our findings in scientific journals devoted to soil conditions and geology. We were eager to put our studies into practice. As we lounged on the deck of the Sarah Lydia we made wild plans and fantasized about our careers. Just once I mentioned, in passing, a shared memory of our student days in Delft, our last evening of fun in Kwame’s company, but Lebret almost imperceptibly turned the conversation to our future. My friends did their best to divert me for the duration of our passage along the West African coast.
Professor Bernhard Cotta had crowned my studies by inviting me to accompany him on a tour of inspection of several mines in the Tirol, which lasted the whole summer of 1849. After that there was little to occupy me in Freiberg other than my personal friendships. I was always welcome at the homes of Von Beust, Breithaupt, Gätschmann, Reich and all the others. Every Friday and Saturday we went out on the town with our drinking club, of which I was honorary member, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays I was expected to put in an appearance at the young ladies’ Ashanti Circle. All these entertainments combined with my visits to Sophie in Weimar made me wish I could stay there for ever. But I could no longer decently defer my departure. Enclosed with my final monthly allowance I received a letter from Minister of Colonies Pahud recalling me to Delft. I lingered in Dresden for a few days, but was eventually obliged to take my leave of Freiberg, which I did with an aching heart. I exchanged silhouettes and locks of hair with my friends, and received many fond notes and declarations of amity, all of which I pasted into the handsome Friends’ Album given to me by Sophie and Carl Alexander. Having ordered an engraving of my likeness to be sent to my friends in due course, I started off on a visit to Weimar, to bid farewell to the future grand duke and duchess. They would not let me go and I spent a few final weeks as their guest at Ettersberg Castle.
At Ettersberg, whenever a letter arrived from Kwame it would be brought to my room. I would take it with me to the stone bench on the edge of the forest behind the castle, where the wide view over the valley always gave me a sense of detachment. I had to summon up courage to read my cousin’s letters.
“Any news from our dear friend?” Sophie enquired as usual when she saw me sitting there during her daily stroll. At first I told her Kwame was doing reasonably well, despite some setbacks. I did not wish to worry her, as she was still mourning her father’s death. But in the end I did read out a few passages. They were somewhat confused, and I had difficulty understanding their meaning. Sophie was shocked and asked if she might see the whole letter. I gave it to her. She read it from beginning to end and then reread it, after which she laid it aside, saying, “Promise me you will never follow him there.” She clasped my hand and did not release it until I had given her my word. After that we would read his letters together, trying to make out the state of his emotions at the time of writing. Occasionally Sophie would advise me as to what I should put in my letters to Kwame. She did not think I should try to cheer him up all the time, which seemed to me the most natural and indeed the easiest solution. No, I was to respond to each of his anxieties separately and at length, even if they struck me as unfounded. My show of empathy, she thought, would make him feel less forsaken.
On 1 October I sent a petition, at Sophie’s instigation and virtually in her words, to her brother Willem Alexander the new king. In it I stated that I had no desire to return to the Gold Coast. I drew his attention to the impasse in Kwame’s prospects and also mentioned the persecution of Christians at Kumasi, the unfavourable forecasts for mining in that region, the high number of casualties and the minimal yields of the Dabokrom undertaking. I wrote that the notion of returning to my native country was distasteful to me, and requested him to secure me a position, of any kind, that would keep me in Holland. When a satisfactory reply did not arrive, Sophie rose up in arms. Only the previous day a most disturbing letter had come from Elmina in which Kwame claimed to have met my aunt, his mother. Sophie thought it wise, in the circumstances, for me to refuse to return to Holland unless I received guarantees for my future as well as the king’s personal assurance that I would be permitted to reside there permanently. On 23 January 1850, I did as she had suggested.
One week later I received a missive granting my wishes. I wrote this happy news to Kwame at once, in the hope that it would please him and that it might make him realize that he too could come back to Europe if he chose. That his second fatherland would welcome him with open arms.
I had run out of reasons to postpone my return to Holland. Sophie took my arm, and we took a final walk in the Buchenwald which lasted several hours.
I arrived in Delft at the end of February. The news of Kwame’s death reached me earlier than his final letters. It was brought to me by courier on 6 March. I was racked with self-recrimination. I made frantic efforts to discover whether he had lived to read the last letters I had written, and if so whether my tidings had disheartened him. No one knew. None of my letters were found amongst his possessions. One of the sergeants who had been stationed in Elmina at the time gave me the following account. On the day before Kwame died he came across my cousin sitting on the battlement of the left tower in the fort. Next to him lay an open portfolio containing all his private papers, among which the sergeant noted his army commission, some certificates and a
batch of personal correspondence. One by one he was throwing the sheets out to sea. When questioned as to his motives he merely said, “I am setting all the words free.”
“Why?” I asked the sergeant, an ingenuous young man, little more than a boy, “why was his irrational behaviour not taken as a warning that he needed surveillance and protection against himself?”
All the soldier said, his voice faltering, was, “Indeed, sir, but you see, the prince looked so utterly content.”
“The tree has fallen,” I wrote to Sophie, aching with regret at having ever left Weimar. The very night that I received the terrible news, my heart turned against Delft. After all the trouble I had taken to secure my permanent domicile in Holland, my soul was lacerated by thoughts of Kwame. I was lying in bed in our old room at the boarding school. Everything around me, even the squeak of the springs when I turned over in the night, reminded me of my dead friend. The mirrors had been draped with cloths. The curtains remained shut. And then there was Mrs. van Moock’s grief-stricken look in the morning, the stunned silence of her husband. The headmaster cancelled the lessons and sat by the fire all day, as pale as parchment. Bertha sobbed in the corridor from morning till night. As for me, I found refuge in church.
A memorial service was held in the Old Church, during which I sat alone in the front pew. Mrs. van Moock insisted on sitting further back with her husband, so that she could flee if the emotion became too much for her. Our former classmates were no longer living in Delft. A few pews behind me I glimpsed only the faces of local shopkeepers, whom I suspected of unwholesome curiosity.
I was struck by the grim expression on old Dominee Molenkamp’s face as he stepped into the pulpit. He laid his hands on the wooden rail. His grip tightened, and I saw his knuckles whiten. He squared his shoulders and opened his mouth. I was so distracted by the iciness of his attitude that I missed the opening sentences of his eulogy. Then I realized what was missing: there were no smiles. I looked round. All the faces looked equally grim. It was not that I myself had felt even the merest glimmer of relief at Kwame’s death, let alone any elation, but the atmosphere of gloom suddenly struck me as utterly heartless. I raised my eyes and glimpsed my friend perching on one of the pediments in the transept. His legs were flung wide and his torso swayed to an inaudible rhythm. This fleeting vision softened my pain. For one happy instant I was elated. Then Molenkamp’s words sank into my brain.
There was a note of indignation in his voice. As though he had suffered a personal injustice. The text he had chosen was “The apostles sent forth to spread the Gospel.” He reminded his audience sanctimoniously of his intention to send us out into the world as missionaries, “as Christ sent the apostles, two by two.” Prince Quame, he said, had refused to take this path. Although he deserved praise for his dedication to his religious studies, it had been proved beyond a doubt that the prince’s faith had been too weak, his old mistaken beliefs too stubborn. Alas, hell awaits those who commit suicide, the dominee seemed to be saying, for he shook his head violently and told us to pray as much as we could for the forgiveness of his sin. After which he closed his eyes and fell silent. My gaze was drawn upwards again. There was nothing to be seen, but I winked at the space anyway.
After the service I discovered van Drunen amongst the mourners. He was very perturbed. I told him he need not blame himself. I said the same to the van Moocks, repeatedly. I even requested the delegate from the ministry to convey this message from me to his superior and also to King Willem III, whose absence from the ceremony surprised me. But I did not warm to Dominee Molenkamp. As I was leaving church he grasped my hand, although I had not extended it.
The next day I addressed a forthright appeal to the minister of Colonies to secure me a position in the Dutch East Indies. I thought that would put some distance between me and my grief, another advantage being that I was not a complete stranger to the tropical environment.
I was received by the state councillor. He did not look kindly on my application, for he was still adamant that it was my duty to return to the Gold Coast. He listed the sums of money that I had cost the Dutch State during the past thirteen years, and enquired how I intended to repay the debt. When I replied that I regarded Holland as my fatherland and that I dearly wished to make myself useful as a citizen thereof, he laughed scornfully.
“I have been otherwise informed,” he said haughtily, but refused to name sources or facts. Perhaps, had I questioned him further in a tactful manner, I might have discovered what sort of game was being played with me, but I lost my self-control. An argument ensued, which ended in my being shown the door after a stern reprimand. After this nothing happened for some time. I had requested an audience with my old friend, King Willem III, but this was not granted. I then wrote him a letter, telling him of my meeting with the state councillor, and asked whether he knew of any allegations against my person. I concluded with declarations of my deepest loyalty, but there was no reply.
After several weeks I received notice from the ministry of Colonies that I was to be offered a post as public servant extraordinary in the East Indies. I was pleased that my bid had been successful, but then the remuneration caught my eye: seventy guilders monthly. By way of comparison, my monthly allowance in Freiberg had been two hundred guilders, and that was just for board and lodging. Had I accepted the post to the Gold Coast I would have earned five thousand guilders annually. What was there left for me to say? I was desperate to leave.
I embarked on 7 May. It was a happy coincidence that my old friends Linse and Lebret were among the passengers of the Sarah Lydia. We were still in the roads when I sent word to the engraver in Freiberg that I approved of my portrait and that he should send copies to all my friends. I instructed him to add the following legend: Friendship is unrelated to station, distance, nation, religion, morals and customs; it links the cold north to the blazing south; without friendship the world would be a wilderness.
Not long after we had sailed from São Tomé, it was announced that Neptune had come on board to baptize those crossing the Equator for the first time—an old tradition. The crew was in excellent spirits and came to fetch us. The mighty sea-god sat on a throne made of kegs. He was swathed in yellow and green, and wore a crown of rope. The youngest sailors were brushed with tar and shaved with a whalebone, after which the poor lads were baptized by being lowered over the port side on the end of a rope. Passengers were less harshly treated. Linse was in good form and volunteered to be the first. His shirt was removed. His hands were tied behind his back. He was forced to kneel in front of a water-butt containing several treacle-covered fruits. When he had finally succeeded in catching one of them in his jaws, the sticky paste was scoured off his face with a brush. After this Lebret demurred. They brushed him so hard that his cheeks almost bled.
When it was my turn I walked towards the water-butt in a daze. I took off my shirt and held out my hands for them to be tied. Then I spotted Kwame among the jeering seamen. He was leaping up and down, jeering with the others. He was actually encouraging them to make me undergo the ritual. When they pushed me down on my knees I found the strength to resist. I demanded in a loud voice to be set free. I declared that I had no desire to participate in customs that were not my own. I was accused of cowardice, but my mind was made up. I bought their silence with bottles of gin, one for every three men. For the rest of the day I was eyed with contempt, but personally I was pleased with my performance.
The Sarah Lydia’s passage was slow. After some damage to the ship during a storm off the coast of Angola, we disembarked in Lüderitz, in South-West Africa. The blazing south had turned bitterly cold, but we were given a friendly welcome by the German population. A beer feast was held around a bonfire in the desert, at which a brass band played. I ate with relish the roasted sausages—my favourite food as a student in Germany—and danced to some folk tunes that I had learned from the children in the park at Freiberg. The German colonists were delighted at my knowledge of their simple dances. Everyone w
anted to shake my hand as if I were an old friend, for they had heard of me. Only five weeks previously the small farming community had been visited by three explorers. One of them had been presented at court in Weimar, and I knew who they were. The Mayor told me that all three, two men and a woman, had been devoured not far from there. That night I returned to the ship, and did not go ashore again as long as we were detained in Lüderitz.
The southern winter was so cold that it was impossible to spend any length of time on deck. Linse, Lebret and I came together in the dining room for a few hours each evening. We diverted ourselves with port and chess, but the bad weather and general tedium sent each of us to our bunks before ten. I spent long days and nights in the solitude of my small cabin. I tried to read, but had difficulty concentrating. When I was alone I was unable to suppress the doubts that kept rising in my mind.
Once again I had left everything behind. Once again I faced the necessity of conforming to a new culture, of understanding and winning the hearts of a new people. How would people react to my appearance? Once again the life I knew was over, while I had no idea what the future might bring. The first time this happened Kwame and I had run away to hide in a cardboard temple. Now there was no one to run with and nowhere to hide. I huddled under my blankets so as not to see what lay ahead.
I remember a curious experience I had once, in a Tirolean country inn where Professor Cotta and I had taken rooms for the night. While we were having dinner a chambermaid came in and whispered in the professor’s ear. Would it be necessary, she asked, to provide clean linen for my bed, seeing as the sheets would turn quite black after I had used them? The professor dismissed the wench with a wave of the hand. We laughed merrily at this incident, but that night I was overcome with disaffection for mankind. I felt as if I had spent my life wading through a morass without making any progress at all. Such sentiments, when I feel utterly defeated, are those that I fear most. As I grow older they become more frequent and also more lasting.
