This Earth of Mankind

by Pramoedya Ananta Toer

  After I’d lived with Mr. Mellema a year, his contract expired. He didn’t extend it. Ever since he arrived in Tulangan, he had kept dairy cattle from Australia and I was taught how to look after them. In the evening I was taught to read and write, to speak and to put together Dutch sentences.

  We moved to Surabaya. Mr. Mellema bought a large piece of land in Wonokromo, our place here now, Ann. But it wasn’t as busy as this then, still bush and patches of new jungle. The cattle were moved here.

  At that time I began to feel glad, happy. He always paid attention to me, asked my opinion, invited me to discuss everything with him. Gradually I came to feel I was equal to him. I was no longer ashamed if I had to meet with old acquaintances. Everything that I had learned and done during that year had restored my self-respect to me. But my outlook was still the same: I readied myself to be no longer dependent on anyone. Of course, it was going too far for a Javanese woman to speak about self-respect, especially one as young as I was then. It was your papa who taught me, Ann. It was much later that I was able truly to feel the meaning of that self-respect.

  Father also visited us at our new address several times, but I still refused to meet him.

  “Meet your father,” Mr. Mellema ordered. “No matter what, he’s still your father.”

  “I did indeed have a father, once, not any more. If he wasn’t Tuan’s guest, I would have already thrown him out. It’d be better to leave here than meet him.”

  “If you went, what would happen to me? What about the cattle? There’d be nobody to look after them.”

  “There are many people who you can hire to look after them.”

  “Those cows only know you.”

  So it was that I began to understand that in reality I was not at all dependent on Mr. Mellema. On the contrary, he was dependent on me. I then began to take a role in making decisions on all matters. He never rejected this. He never forced me to do anything, except study. In this matter, he was a hard but good teacher. I was an obedient and good pupil. I knew everything he was teaching me would, one day, be of use to me and my children if he went home to the Netherlands.

  Tuan never pressured me about Sastrotomo again. Several times that clerk passed on messages through Tuan that if I was unwilling to meet him, then could I write him a letter? I never responded to any of this. I never wrote even one or two lines to him, even though I could now write well in both Malay and Dutch. Sastrotomo wrote again and again. I never read any of his letters; I just sent them back.

  Then, once, Mother and Father came to Wonokromo. Tuan was uneasy, perhaps embarrassed, because I still refused to meet them. The guests, according to Tuan, had kept pressing to meet me. Mother had cried. Through Tuan, I said:

  “Consider me your egg that has fallen from the egg rack. Broken. It’s not the egg’s fault.”

  With that, all business between my parents and me was over.

  Why are you squeezing my arm, Ann? I’ve brought you up to be a business woman and merchant. You should not be sentimental. Our world is one of profit and loss. You don’t agree with your Mama’s attitude, do you? Even fowls, and the hen most of all, of course, defend their chicks, even against the eagle in the sky. It was only proper that my parents received fitting punishment. You too may take that attitude towards Mama one day. But later, when you’re capable of standing on your own feet.

  Tuan then imported more cattle, also from Australia. The work increased. Workers had to be hired. Tuan began to hand over all the work within the business to me. At first I was afraid to give the workers orders. Tuan guided me. He said: Their employer is their livelihood. You are the master of their livelihood! Then, under his supervision, I began to dare to give orders. He remained a hard and wise teacher. No, he never hit me. Had he done so just once, my bones would have shattered. As difficult as it was, I was slowly able to do what he wished.

  Tuan himself spent most of his time away looking for customers. Our business began to flourish.

  At that time Darsam arrived, an unemployed vagrant. But he loved to work. He would do anything that was given to him. One night, after a knife fight, he caught a thief. The thief died. Yes, there was a court case, but he was freed. Since then I have put my trust in him. I’ve made him my right-hand man. In the meantime Tuan spent less and less time at home.

  I almost forgot to tell you this too, Ann. It was Tuan who taught me how to dress properly, to choose matching colors. He liked to wait upon me while I put on my makeup. On those occasions he would say:

  “You must always be beautiful, Nyai. A crumpled face and untidy clothes also reflect a crumpled and untidy business. No one will trust you.”

  See how I fulfilled all his desires? How I satisfied all his needs? I was always neat and tidy. Sometimes I even put on makeup before sleeping. To be attractive and beautiful is truly better than being crumpled, Ann. Remember that. And nothing bad is attractive. If I were a man, I’d tell my friends that any woman who was unable to look after her own beauty was not worth marrying: “She can’t do anything, she can’t even look after her own skin,” I would say.

  Tuan said:

  “You are not allowed to chew betel nut, that way your teeth will stay gleaming white.”

  And I never chewed betel nut.

  Ann, almost every month books and magazines arrived from the Netherlands. Tuan liked to read. I don’t know why you’re not like your father, especially when I like to read too. None of this reading material was in Malay, let alone Javanese. When the work was finished, at twilight, we’d sit in front of our hut, a bamboo hut, Ann—we didn’t have this beautiful house then—and he would order me to read. Also newspapers. He listened to my reading, correcting me when I was wrong, explaining the meaning of words I didn’t understand. So it went every day until eventually I was taught how to use a dictionary by myself. I was only a bought slave. I had to do everything as he wished. Every day. Then he gave me a quota of reading. Books, Ann. I had to finish them and retell their contents.

  Yes, Ann, as time went on, the old Sanikem began to disappear completely. Mama grew up into a new person with a new vision and new views. I no longer felt like the slave who was sold years before in Tulangan. I felt as if I no longer had a past. Sometimes I asked myself: Had I become a Dutch woman with brown skin? I didn’t dare answer, even though I saw the backwardness of the Natives around me. I didn’t mix very much with Europeans, except with your papa.

  I once asked him if European women were taught as I was now being taught. Do you know how he answered?

  “You are far more capable than the average European woman, especially the Mixed-Bloods.”

  Ah, how happy I was with him, Ann! How clever he was at flattering me and encouraging me. I was ready to surrender my whole body and soul to him. If my life was to be short, I wanted to die in his arms, Ann. I knew my decision to cut off my links with the past was right. He fitted exactly the Javanese description of a husband: instructor and god. Perhaps to prove what he said, he subscribed to some women’s magazines from the Netherlands for me.

  Then Robert was born. Four years later, you, Ann. The business got bigger. Our land grew larger. We were able to buy some wild forest at the edge of our land. All the land was bought in my name. There were no rice paddies or other fields yet. After the business became very large, Tuan began to pay me for my labor, as well as for the years that had already gone by. With that money I bought a rice mill and other plants and equipment. Since then the business was no longer the property of Mr. Mellema as my master, but also my property. Then I received a share of five years’ profit, five thousand guilders. Tuan obliged me to save it in a bank under my own name. By then we had named the business Boerderij Buitenzorg. And because I carried out all its affairs, people who had dealings with me called me Nyai Ontosoroh, Nyai Buitenzorg.

  Asleep yet? Not yet? Good.

  After following the women’s magazines for a long time and carrying out much of what they taught, I repeated my question to Tuan:

  “Am I
like a Dutch woman yet?”

  Your papa laughed broadly.

  “It’s impossible for you to be like a Dutch woman. And it’s not necessary either. It’s enough that you are as you are now. Even thus, you’re cleverer and better than all of them. All of them!” He laughed expansively again.

  Of course he was exaggerating. But I was pleased and happy. At least I was not below them. It pleased me to hear his praises. He never criticized, there was nothing but praise. He never ignored my questions; they were always answered. I became more confident, more daring.

  Then Ann, then this happiness was horribly shaken, rocking the foundations of my life. One day Tuan and I went to court to acknowledge Robert and you as the children of Mr. Mellema. In the beginning I thought that with such acknowledgment my children would receive legal recognition as legitimate children. But it wasn’t so, Ann. Your elder brother and you continued to be considered illegitimate, but now you were recognized as the children of Mr. Mellema and could use his name. However, the court’s decision also meant that the law no longer recognized you as my children. You weren’t my children any longer, though it was I who gave birth to you. Since that day, both of you, according to the law, were the children of Mr. Mellema alone—according to the law, Ann, Dutch law in these Indies. Don’t be mistaken. You’re still my child. Only then did I realize how evil the law was. You obtained a father, but lost a mother.

  Following that, Ann, Tuan wanted you both to be baptized. I didn’t go with you to church. You all returned home quickly. The priest refused to baptize you. Your papa became gloomy.

  “These children have the right to a father,” said Tuan. “Why don’t they have the right to receive the absolution of Christ?”

  I didn’t understand such matters, and was silent. Afterwards I found out that you could only become legitimate if we married in a civil registry office. You could then be baptized, so I began to press your papa that we marry. I urged and urged. Your papa, who had been depressed over those last few days, all of a sudden became angry, the first time he’d ever been angry in all those years. He didn’t answer. And he never explained the reasons either. So, according to the law, you are still illegitimate children. And you’ve never been baptized either.

  I didn’t try again, Ann. I had to be happy with things as they were. No one would ever call me Mrs. The title Nyai would follow me forever, for all my life. It didn’t matter as long as you both had a respected father, who could be relied upon, who could be trusted, who had honor, especially as that acknowledgment meant a great deal in your own society. My own interests need not concern anyone, as long as you both obtained what was rightfully yours. My interests? I could look after them myself. Ah, you’re asleep.

  “No, Mama,” I denied.

  I still awaited her words about you, Mas. At another time, when another opportunity arose, perhaps she would not talk as much as this. So I had to be patient until she turned to talking about our relationship, Mas.

  So I asked, leading her on:

  “So Mama eventually loved Papa too.”

  “I don’t know what the meaning of love is. He carried out his responsibilities, so too did I. That was enough for us both. If, in the end, he had gone home to the Netherlands, I would not have tried to stop him, not only because I had no right to do so, but because we owed each other nothing. He could leave any time he liked. I felt strong with everything I’d learned and I’d obtained, everything I owned and could do. Anyway, Mama was just a concubine whom he’d bought once from my parents. My savings amounted to more than ten thousand guilders, Ann.”

  “Mama never visited the family in Tulangan?”

  “I had no family in Tulangan. Only in Wonokromo. My brother Paiman visited me several times and I would receive him. He came to ask for help. It was always the same. The last time he came was to report: Sastrotomo died in a cholera epidemic along with all the others. His wife had died earlier, who knows of what.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if we visited there, Mama?”

  “No, it’s better the way it is now. Let the past be severed from the present. The wounds to my pride and self-respect still haven’t healed. If I remember how I was so humiliatingly sold . . . I’m not able to forgive the greed of Sastrotomo and the weakness of his wife. Once in their lives people must take a stand. If not, they will never become anything.”

  “You’re too hard, Mama, too hard.”

  “And what would become of you if I wasn’t ready to be hard? Hard towards everybody. In this, let me be the only victim; I’ve already accepted my fate as a slave. You’re the one who is too weak, Ann, showing pity where it’s out of place.”

  And Mama still hadn’t talked about you. It seemed that Mama had never loved Papa, so I was embarrassed to talk about it, Mas. Papa remained a stranger to Mama. While you, Mas, why were you so close to me now? And why did I always want to be near you?

  “Then the second blow fell, Ann,” Mama continued. “And the wound was never to heal.”

  * * *

  The government decided to repair and upgrade Tanjung Perak, Surabaya’s harbor. A team of harbor engineers was brought out from the Netherlands. At that time our dairy business was expanding well. Every month there were more and more requests for regular deliveries. The whole D.P.M., the Dutch oil company, was ordering from us. All of a sudden, like a thunderbolt, disaster crashed down. A thunderbolt of disaster.

  (Mama went downstairs to get something to drink. The room was dark. No one was listening to us in that upstairs room. It was a still night. The tick-tock of the pendulum clock could be faintly heard coming from the living room through the open door. And that sound disappeared when Mama came back and closed the door.)

  There was a young engineer in that team of experts. I first read his name in the newspaper: Engineer Maurits Mellema. A little of his life story was presented. He was a hard-headed engineer. Already in his short career he had proved his great ability, it said.

  Perhaps he’s your papa’s family, I thought. I didn’t want anybody else mixing in our lives, which had become so calm, stable, and happy. Our business must not be touched by anyone. So I hid the paper before your papa was able to read it. I said it hadn’t arrived—perhaps the delivery man was sick. He didn’t ask further about it.

  Three months later, Mama went on, after you and Robert had left for school, a guest arrived in a big, beautiful government carriage pulled by two horses. Your papa was working out back. Mama was working in the office.

  The government carriage stopped at the front steps. I left the office to greet it. Perhaps some government office needed dairy products. I saw a young European alight. He was dressed all in white. His coat was white, closed, the coat of a marine officer. He wore a marine cap, but there were no marks of rank on his sleeves or shoulders. His body was straight and his chest broad. He unhesitatingly knocked on the door several times. His face was identical to Mr. Mellema’s. The silver buttons on his shirt gleamed with pictures of anchors.

  In bad Malay, he spoke abruptly and arrogantly, in a manner I felt straight away to be impudent and opposed to the European politeness I knew.

  “Where’s Tuan Mellema,” he said, more an order than a question.

  “And you are Tuan who?” I asked, offended.

  “I only need to meet Tuan Mellema,” he said more roughly than before.

  I felt again like a nyai without the right to be respected in my own home. As if I weren’t a shareholder in this big business. Perhaps he thought I was sponging on Mr. Mellema. Without my help my master would never have been able to build this house, Ann. This guest did not have the right to act so arrogantly.

  I did not invite him to sit down and left him standing. I ordered somebody to fetch Tuan.

  Your father taught me never to read a letter or listen to a conversation with which one had no business. But this once I was suspicious. I left the door between the office and the front room open a little. I had to know who he was and what it was he wanted.

 
The young man was still standing when Tuan came. Through the gap left by the open door I saw your papa stand nailed to the floor.

  “Maurits!” Tuan greeted him. “You’re already so dashing.”

  At once I knew this was Engineer Maurits Mellema, the member of the team of harbor construction experts at Tanjung Perak.

  He didn’t answer respectfully, Ann, but corrected your Papa arrogantly.

  “En-gin-eer Maurits Mellema, Mr. Mellema!”

  Your papa looked taken aback at receiving the correction. The guest still stood there. Your papa invited him to sit down, but he didn’t respond or sit.

  You must listen to this story well, Ann, you must not forget it. Not only because your grandchildren must know, but because his arrival was the source of all your and my difficulties today. And the business’s.

  The young Dutch guest said:

  “I didn’t come here to sit down in this chair. There is something more important than sitting. Listen, Mr. Mellema. My mother, Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers, after you left in such a cowardly manner, had to work, breaking her back to sustain me, to educate me, until I graduated as an engineer. I and Mrs. Mellema-Hammers had resolved no longer to hope for your return, Mr. Mellema. As far as we were concerned, you had disappeared, swallowed up by the earth. We sought no reports of your whereabouts.”

  Through the gap in the door, the side of your papa’s face was visible. He raised his hands. His lips moved but no voice came out. His cheeks trembled uncontrollably. Then his hands fell.

  Ann, Engineer Mellema spoke like this:

  “You, sir, left behind the accusation that Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers had been unfaithful. I, her son, share her feelings of humiliation. You never brought this matter to court. You never gave my mother the opportunity to defend herself and her honor. Who knows to whom else you have passed on or told your dirty accusations. By coincidence I’m now serving in Surabaya, Mr. Mellema. By coincidence also I read in an auction paper an advertisement offering dairy goods and milk produced by Boerderij Buitenzorg with your name displayed. I hired a detective to find out who you were. Yes, H. Mellema was Herman Mellema, the husband of my mother. Mrs. Amelia Mellema-Hammers could have married again and lived happily. But you, sir, left the matter hanging.”