And for him this difficulty was greater still than it would have been for many others, because his heart was soft, and in contrast with his mind, which, the reader may have perceived by this time, was quite the opposite. So he had not only to contend with the fear of man, and the cares of office or advancement, but also with the duties which he had to fulfil as a husband and a father: he had to conquer an enemy in his own heart. He could not see suffering without suffering himself, and it would lead me too far, if I quoted examples, of how he always took, even where he was injured and offended, the part of an adversary against himself. He had told Duclari and Verbrugge how in his youth he had found something attractive in duelling with the sabre, which was true; but he did not add, how he, after having wounded his adversary, generally wept, and cherished his late enemy as a loved sister, till he was quite recovered. I could relate how he, at Natal, had spoken in a friendly manner to the man condemned to hard labour who had shot at him, how he caused him to be fed, and gave him more liberty than others, because he thought he had discovered [[270]]that the exasperation of this condemned man was the consequence of a too severe sentence pronounced elsewhere. Generally, the mildness of his disposition was either denied or thought ridiculous——denied by those who confounded his heart with his mind—thought ridiculous by those who could not understand how an intelligent man gave himself pains to save a fly that had stuck fast in a spider’s web——denied again by every one—except Tine—who afterwards heard him scoff at those “stupid animals,” and at “stupid Nature” that created such animals.
But there was still another means of pulling him down from the pedestal whereupon his acquaintances—nolens volens—were compelled to place him. “Yes, he is witty … but there is inconsiderateness in his wit. He is intelligent … but he makes no good use of his intelligence. Yes, he is good-natured, but … he plays the coquette with it!”
For his mind and his intelligence I do not stand up, … but his heart? Poor insects, which he saved when he was quite alone, will you defend his heart against the accusation of coquetry?
But you fled away, and did not care about Havelaar—you, that could not know that he would once need your testimony.
Was it coquetry of Havelaar, when at Natal he jumped into the estuary after a dog (the animal’s name was Sappho), because he feared that the young creature could not swim [[271]]well enough to escape the sharks that are so numerous there? I find such a coquetting with good-nature more difficult to believe than good-nature itself.
I call you to witness that have known Havelaar—if you are not stiffened by the cold of winter, and dead or dried up and withered by the heat yonder, under the Equator!—I summon you to testify of his heart, all of you who have known him! Now, above all, I summon you with confidence, because you need no more seek for the spot where the cord must be hooked in to pull him down ever so little.
Yet, however inopportunely it may appear, I will here insert a few lines from his pen, which will, perhaps, make such witnesses superfluous. Max was once far from wife and child. He had to leave her behind in the Indies, and was in Germany. With the quickness which I ascribe to him, but which I won’t defend if attacked, he mastered the language of the country where he had been for a few months. Here are the lines which picture his love for his household:—
“ ‘Mein Kind, da schlägt die neunte Stunde, hör!
Der Nachtwind säuselt, und die Luft wird kühl,
Zu kühl für dich vielleicht, dein Stirnchen glüht: