Jan and Zaida

Jan and Zaida

A Story Based on Events That Really Happened at Grésik, on the Island of Java, in 1854

Our life is turned out of its course wherever a human being is made an offering or a sacrifice, a tool or an implement—a passive thing used as a brute means, without acknowledgment of common right or interest in the end, used or abused as selfishness may prompt.

—Wordsworth

A man from the island of Celebes, captured by slave traders, was sold to Mr. Philip Van der Hooft of Surabaya, in the northeastern part of Java. A Hindoo slave was given to him as a wife, and she died leaving a son of two years old. Mr. Van der Hooft gave this child to his sister Maria, a girl of fifteen, who had taken a great fancy to him when he was a baby. She was amused at the idea of counting little Jan among her birthday presents, but he pleased her as much as any of them, not as a piece of property but as a pretty plaything. He was indeed a child of singular beauty: small features, finely formed limbs, and large, dark, Hindoo eyes that, even at that age, were tender and almost sad in expression. His sense of hearing was extremely sharp. Maria was musical, and the moment he heard her piano or guitar, he would drop his toys and run into the parlor.

There he would creep under the table to be out of the way and sit listening, his whole soul shining through the changing expressions of his face. Sometimes he was so excited that he would tremble all over and end by clapping his hands with a loud crow of delight; but more often he was moved to tears. Being a general favorite and the special pet of his young mistress, he was rarely sent out of the parlor when he wandered in. When Maria was busy at her embroidery frame, if she looked up she would often see his little dark head peeping in, waiting for her to notice him. As soon as she said, “Ah, here comes my little brownie!” he would run to her with a jump and a bounce, then stand gazing at the bright colors she was weaving into her work. If she was singing or playing when he entered, she would nod and smile at him. She often seated him on her lap and let him play on the piano.

His fingers were too short to reach an octave, but he would touch thirds over and over, smiling and laughing and wriggling all over with delight. Sometimes she amused herself by striking the first and seventh notes together, and then he would cringe as if she had put her finger in his eye.

He was only three years old when his mistress married Lambert Van der Veen and moved with him to a country house near the city of Grésik. Little Jan did not really like that gentleman, because when he came, Jan was often sent out of the parlor, and Maria was so absorbed with her lover that she sometimes forgot to nod and smile when “little brownie” peeked in. He was very possessive in his affections; he wanted those he loved all to himself. So although the young man spoke kindly to him and often gave him sugar plums, a shadow always passed over his expressive face when, running eagerly at the sound of the piano, he looked into the parlor and saw his rival there.

But after Maria was married, he became, if anything, more of a petted plaything than ever. Her husband was engaged in business and often traveled far from home, and their house, two miles from the city, was quieter than her father’s had been. She spent many lonely hours teaching Jan little accomplishments, especially developing his remarkable talent for imitation. The birds especially attracted his attention, and in a few months he could mimic them so perfectly that they mistook his voice for their own.

He soon did the same with the buzz and whirr of every insect, and laughed to hear how all the little creatures answered him. Nature had made him almost as sensitive to colors as to sounds. When his mistress went into the garden, he would run after her to beg for a flower. She liked the sound of his little padding feet and often smiled to watch his gentle movements and graceful form, clothed only in a large, many-colored bamboo hat and a belt of broad fringe around his waist.

When the master was at home, Jan had to find his entertainment among the other slaves. They generally liked to sing or whistle to him and would laugh merrily at his eager attempts to imitate. But some, who had children of their own, envied the favor he enjoyed and so did not wish him well. They did not dare to strike him, but they found many ways to make him uncomfortable. Clearly, he liked the parlor better than the slaves’ quarters, partly because he got more attention there and partly because he could hear so many pleasant sounds and see so many pretty things. He liked the cool straw carpet and the pale green walls. The big china jars were a constant delight. He never tired of putting his little fingers on the brilliant flowers and butterflies painted on them. But what filled him with more wonder than anything else was a folding screen of oriental workmanship that separated the parlor from the dining room.

There were gilded pagodas, Chinese mandarins with peacock feathers in their caps, and two birds of paradise as large as life—much larger, in fact, than the mandarins or the pagodas. Then it was pleasant to peek out into the garden through the vine-covered lattice of the verandah, to see the blooming roses and the little fountain’s silvery veil, to smell the orange blossoms, and to listen to the cool trickling of the tiny water drops. All this was really his, for he did not know he was a little slave; and it is the privilege of innocent childhood to own whatever it delights in. In that sense, it all belonged to little Jan more truly than to Mr. Van der Veen. No wonder he sighed when the master returned, since it meant he would be banished from his paradise for a while.

Perhaps there was slight jealousy on the other side too, for although the gentleman was always kind to his wife’s favorite, he sometimes hinted at the danger of spoiling him, and the two never became close.

At first little Jan was afraid to go near the parlor at all when he was home. But one time, when his stay was unusually long, Jan’s patience gave out waiting for him to leave. He began by peeking in slyly through the folding screen. Seeing himself observed, he ran away, but soon came back and peeked again, and when his mistress smiled at him, he came in timidly, offered his master a geranium blossom, and said, “May little Jan stay?” Maria immediately said, “Oh yes, let him stay; he is so happy here.” But there was no need to plead, for no one could resist his pretty looks and graceful offering. Mr. Van der Veen patted his head, and he crept under the table to listen to the piano. After that he never avoided his master, though he still came in timidly, and if he did not get a smile of encouragement, he would run off to bring a flower as an admission fee.

When he was about four, a more dangerous rival than a husband appeared. Maria had a baby son, who naturally took up much of her attention, and little Jan eyed him as a spoiled kitten eyes a new lapdog.

His face looked very sad the first time he saw her caressing the baby. He did not cry aloud, for he was a gentle child, but he quietly crept under the table with the flowers he had brought for his mistress, and as he sat there in a very dejected pose, tears dropped onto the blossoms. Some of the servants made matters worse by saying, within his hearing, “Now that missis has a baby of her own, she won’t make such a fool of that little monkey.” His heart swelled, and he ran as fast as he could to ask Madame Van der Veen if she loved little Jan. When he entered the parlor, the fond mother happened to be showing her son to visitors. As she turned, she held him toward the spoiled slave, saying, “Look at him, Janniken! Isn’t he a little beauty?” “No,” he replied, louder than anyone had ever heard him speak, “ugly baby!” and he gave his rival a shove with his little fist.

Of course he was sent away in disgrace, and the slave mothers, seeing him upset, taunted him, “Ha, ha, little whistler! I thought your nose would be put out of joint.”

A minister of the Reformed Dutch Church, who saw this outburst of hostility toward the baby, offered it as proof of the natural sinfulness of the human heart. But time showed that the sinfulness was not very deep. Jan felt a bitter pang at being replaced in the affections of the one he loved, but he was too kind-natured to hold a grudge. His heart soon warmed to the infant, and they became friends and playmates. When little Lambert grew old enough to totter about, it was the prettiest sight imaginable to see them together among the vine leaves that crept through the green lattice of the verandah. The blue-eyed baby, plump and fair, dressed in white muslin, formed a beautiful contrast to his brown companion. They looked like two cupids at play, one in marble, the other in bronze. But although they were almost inseparable and very fond of each other, little Jan had to go through a painful process of weaning.

Many a time he “sighed among his playthings” when he saw Maria cuddling her baby without noticing him. Many a time tears fell on his neglected offering of flowers.

Still, he was far more fortunate than most slaves who happen to be petted playthings in childhood, for he simply moved from an atmosphere of love into one of considerate kindness. His quick ear for every variation of sound continued to bring pleasure to himself and his indulgent mistress. His voice was small, like his body, but it had a bird-like sweetness. Even its imperfections, coming from weakness and inexperience, gave an innocent charm to his performing, like a child’s lisping or a foreigner’s broken speech. When he could sing two or three simple melodies, Madame Van der Veen gave him a little guitar and taught him to accompany his voice. The population of Java was a mix of many nations, and as he listened intently to whatever he heard hummed, whistled, or played in the parlor or the slave quarters, by age six he knew snatches of a wide variety of tunes.

He loved to weave Hindoo, Arab, Javanese, English, and Dutch melodies into improvised fantasies that resembled grotesque drawings with birds and monkeys, flowers, fruit, and human faces bound together in a graceful tangle of vines.

At eight, he was often trusted to run errands to Grésik. Following his habit of listening and observing during these trips, he added many popular tunes to his collection and soon learned to imitate all kinds of instruments, just as he had once imitated the birds. Hindoo lullabies, Arab dances, boat songs of the Javanese as they passed up and down the river, English marches, Dutch drinking songs, and Chinese jingle-jangles—he could give a lively version of all of them, and he was often called into the parlor to perform for company.

His master said it was time he learned to work. Maria agreed but arranged things so that duty and preference went hand in hand. She knew his deeply sensuous nature delighted in perfumes and bright colors, so she told the Dutch gardener to take him as an assistant and teach him all the mysteries of his craft. Raising flowers and training vines is never tiresome, and in that sunny, fertile region of the earth, light labor is repaid with a lavish bounty of fragrant blossoms and delicious fruit all year round.

Jan had an instinct that told him which colors harmonized and which shapes were graceful. His mistress often praised his bouquets and garlands, and his love for her drove him to make the flower decorations of her room, her table, and her dress as perfect as possible. Little Lambert also wanted to help in the garden, but the exercise made him hot, and he often pulled up flowers instead of weeds, so his mother thought it best to keep him indoors. That made him restless and unhappy, so Jan took on the job of bringing him flowers in the cool arbors and watching over him. He often dressed Lambert up with many small bouquets and twined garlands around his broad palm-leaf hat until he looked like a little Maypole, then sent him inside to show his fond mother, who would pretend not to know him and ask what little boy that could be—a trick that always got an infantile laugh.

During one of these flower displays, two hummingbirds followed him in the garden walks. His mother, watching through the verandah lattice, saw the bright creatures circling around her darling’s head, sticking their long bills into the blossoms he wore, and she clapped her hands in joy. After that, Jan loved to attract hummingbirds and butterflies around little master’s hat. The next greatest amusement was teaching Lambert to imitate the birds and to laugh or look solemn as he listened to merry or sad music.

Thus they stood together on the threshold of life, linked by love, flowers, and song, still not understanding the idea of master and slave. But when little Lam, as they called him, was six years old, he was struck by one of the violent fevers common to the climate, and all the care affectionate love could give could not save him.

During his illness he did not want Jan out of his sight. Jan scattered flowers on his pillow and sang soothing lullabies with untiring patience. If the sick child dozed off to his drowsy, monotonous tones, Jan still could not leave, because the little hand clutched his, as if afraid he would go. When the child’s spirit departed and his lovely body was laid in the earth, no one grieved more than Jan, except the parents. The first time they visited the grave, they found it covered with flowers Jan had planted. In the house, in the garden, everywhere, he missed the sound of those little feet, which had seemed like an echo of his own, so constantly did they follow him. For a while all music seemed sad to him, because every tune he whistled or sang reminded him of something connected with his lost playmate.

Months later, when he found under the shrubs a wooden toy he had made for Lam, he sobbed aloud, and all day the world seemed dark to him. This deep bond with the lost child brought back all the tender interest Madame Van der Veen had ever felt for “little brownie.” But the playful tone of their relationship was gone, because of her sadness and his growing up.

The young mother drooped under the blow like flowers struck by a black frost, never to revive. Time healed her enough to make her calm and resigned, but her former cheerfulness never came back. She became very devout, and all her music seemed like prayer. Seeing this life through the eyes of someone weary of its deceptions, she fixed her thoughts on the world where her darling had gone. The shadow lifted more easily from Jan’s young soul. Again he delighted in the bright colors, the strong perfumes, and the many sounds of that lush region. Again he began to mimic the birds and the boatmen and to join the other young slaves in dances.

About two years after losing his best-loved playmate, he found a companion who more than filled his place and brought him more liveliness and joy than he had ever known. One morning, walking to Grésik to run an errand for his mistress, he heard a pleasant voice in the distance singing a merry tune. The sounds came closer and closer, and they were so lively that his feet moved faster without his thinking.

Soon a young girl came out from behind some tamarind trees, with a basket of fruit on her head; the song stopped suddenly. Her face was very innocent and modest, and even though her skin was a deeper brown than his, a blush shone through it like the glow of wine through a dark bottle in the sunshine. Jan noticed it as she passed, and something—he didn’t know what—made him remember her face clearly and want to see it again. From then on, he never went to Grésik without thinking of the cheerful voice in the distance, and he never passed the tamarind trees without recalling the bright vision he had met there. Many weeks passed before he caught another glimpse of her, but at last he came upon her with her basket on the road to Grésik. This time they did not just pass each other, for they were going the same way. Shyly, they talked and answered, and each thought the other even better looking than they had first thought.

The friendship that began that way quickly grew into intimacy. He was not yet thirteen, and she was not eleven. But in that warm, early-maturing land, Cupid shoots at children with a bow of sugarcane, and this little girl had a supply of his arrows in her large, shining eyes. After that, Jan was filled with new energy to do all the errands to Grésik, and it happened that he often caught up with her on the road or found her resting among the tamarind trees. For a mile, her road home was the same as his. So they traveled back and forth with their baskets, filling the air with song as they went, as happy as the birds and as careless of the years to come. During these often meetings, he learned that she was a slave, that her mother came from the island of Bali, and that her Arab father had given her the name Zaida.

Within a few months, Madame Van der Veen heard from the other servants that Jan was in love with a pretty girl whose master lived near Grésik. When she asked him, he shyly admitted it. She then spoke to him very seriously and told him how sorry she would be to see him doing what many around him did.

She said that if Zaida was a good girl and wanted to marry him, she would try to buy her; and if they promised to be faithful and kind to each other, they would have a fine wedding at her house and a bamboo hut to live in. This almost motherly kindness made his sensitive soul overflow with tears. She took that moving moment to talk to him about his duties to God and to explain that God had made people for a higher destiny than to pair off, like the birds, for just a season.

The negotiations to buy Zaida went on for some time, and in the end she was bought at an unusually high price, because her master took advantage of Madame Van der Veen’s well-known generosity and indulgence toward everyone in her home. Meanwhile, the kind lady let her slave see his beloved often. Once a week, he took his guitar and spent two or three hours with his singing bird. Every errand to Grésik was given to him, and Zaida found many chances to go there at the same hour. Very beautiful were the scenes they passed through in those happy days. To the south was a range of mountains, blue and hazy in the distance. To the north was the bright sea, with the island of Madura lying like an emerald gem on its breast. Bamboo cottages, shaded by thick, lush plants, dotted the flat land like little islands, their deep green making a lovely contrast with the rich yellow of the ripening rice fields.

Here a pomegranate, with large scarlet blossoms and more beautiful than any other tree, filled the air with fragrance; there a tall coconut palm raised its great feathery head above the light, delicate leaves of a tamarind grove. Arum lilies held up their large white cups among the tangled vines by the roadside.

Wild peacocks and other magnificent birds flitted across their path, glittering in the sunlight like jewels from fairyland. The warbling of birds, the buzzing of bees, the whiz and whirr of countless insects, all the swarming sounds of tropical life, mixed with the steady chanting of boatmen coming down the Solo River with their goods, singing in measured rhythm, “Pull and row, brothers! pull and row!”

Only one jarring note disturbed the harmony nature sang to love. Near Zaida’s master’s house lived a Dutchman and his wife who were notoriously cruel to their slaves. Zaida told of some shocking examples of harshness and especially felt sorry for a girl a little older than herself, who had once had a very kind master and mistress. When they died, she was sold at auction and unluckily fell into the hands of that cruel neighbor. The wife was jealous and never missed a chance to torment her. When Jan was singing some of the sad melodies he always liked, or when he imitated Chinese jingle-jangles to amuse the cheerful Zaida, sometimes the crack of a whip and shrieks would break into the music or the fun, and put them out of tune. Nature had made Jan more sensitive than thoughtful, and he had been raised so much like a hummingbird among flowers that he had never thought much about his own position as a slave.

Now, for the first time, it occurred to him, “What if my master and mistress should die, and I should be sold?”

An English family lived very close to Madame Van der Veen’s, and because both families were musical, a friendship had grown between them. The father and mother of that family were strongly against slavery and often discussed it. Jan, as he passed in and out of the parlor waiting on guests, used to hear these conversations as if he did not. He often wished the old Englishman would stop talking so his son could play the flute along with Madame Van der Veen’s piano. But after those whips and screams had awakened him to the possibility of being sold, he listened more carefully and carried into later years the memory of many things he heard.

When he was fourteen and Zaida was twelve, they were married. Madame Van der Veen gave cake and lemonade for the wedding and provided bright clothes for the young bride and groom, who looked wonderful in their new finery. Jan had lost some of his childish beauty but was still handsome. His yellowish complexion was made paler by contrast with his jet-black hair and the bright turban on top. His limbs were thin and flexible, his features small and well proportioned, and his large, doe-like eyes had a floating, sad look, as if there were always a tear in his soul. Zaida was rounder, browner, and ruddier. Her dark hair was combed straight back and twisted into a knot decorated with scarlet flowers. The short, soft hairs around her forehead curled into a little wavy fringe. From her small ears hung two large gilt hoops, a wedding gift from the old Englishman.

She got her beautifully shaped eyes from her Arab father, finer than those of her mother’s race. Her long dark lashes curled upward and gave her a smiling look even when she was serious, and when she was amused, her eyes laughed out loud. There was a pleasing harmony in the contrast between her and her bridegroom. The young Englishman compared them to the major and minor modes, and Madame Van der Veen said they looked like hope and memory. Good looks are rare among the natives of those islands. Little Zaida was like a ruby among common stones.

Their bridal home was a bamboo hut raised two feet off the ground, with two rooms but no windows. That was all they needed in a climate where, for more than half the year, most housework could be done outside. There was a wide verandah in front, sheltered from rain and sun by the overhanging roof. In front of the hut was a grove of orange and lemon trees, and behind it a group of plantains, whose very long, broad leaves and yellow spikes of nodding flowers made cool shadows.

A grass mat Jan had woven and pillows stuffed with soft down from a wild plant served as their bed. Gourd shells, a few earthen dishes, and a wooden tray from which they ate their meals while sitting on the floor made up their simple furniture. The rooms, which got light only from the open door, were used just for eating and sleeping. The verandah was where they did their work. There Zaida could be seen busy at her spinning wheel and loom; there Jan wove mats and baskets for his master’s household; and there stood his gambang, an instrument with wooden bars of different lengths that he struck with a mallet to accompany the simple Javanese tunes he and Zaida sang together.

Years passed over their heads without any more serious problems than small quarrels with other slaves, the occasional illness, and the frequent birth of children. Some looked like their father, some like their mother, and some had eyes set at a slant, like the island ancestors from whom they came. Some were bright, some dull, some merry, some sad; but Madame Van der Veen said they were all very good children, and they certainly were taught to be devotedly attentive to her. In their early years, clothing them cost nothing, for they ran around naked, and food cost almost nothing too, since rice was easy to grow and plantains, coconuts, and oranges grew wild. The warmth of the climate, the generous soil, the careless habits that anyone who does not own property is bound to form, and the great kindness his gentle mistress had always shown him—all these made Jan forget how uncertain was his hold on the good things of his mere animal life.

Sometimes, when he went to Grésik, he passed by a slave auction, and the sight always gave him a pang, because it brought to mind a picture of Zaida and their children standing there amid the rude jokes and rough handling of a crowd of men. Sometimes he saw slaves treated harshly and cruelly, and even more often he heard of such cases. Then he remembered the whips and screams that had interrupted his music and fun during his courtship days, and they always brought the question, “What if Zaida and our daughters should ever be sold to people like that cruel Dutchman and his jealous wife?” While these thoughts were fresh, he listened closely to whatever his master and the English family said about slavery.

From them he learned that the English, during their brief time in Java, had stopped the slave trade with nearby islands, had passed laws forbidding the sale of slaves unless they agreed, and had allowed slaves to keep any property they could acquire. Mr. Van der Veen tried to excuse the Dutch for bringing back the slave trade by saying it was forced on them because they had no other way to get servants. The Englishman denied there was any such need. He said the people of Java were intelligent, teachable, and honest, and were very willing to work for pay. He praised the native princes for never allowing any of their own people to be slaves. He told of one prince who had inherited fifty slaves; when the British government declared that all would be free unless their masters registered them publicly within a set time, he said, “Then I will not register my slaves. They shall be free.

I have kept them only because it was the custom, and because the Dutch liked to be attended by slaves when they came to the palace. But since that is not the case with the British, they shall stop being slaves. For I have long felt ashamed, and my blood has run cold, when I think of what I once saw at Batavia and Semarang, where people were put up for sale at public auction, placed on a table, and examined like sheep and oxen.”

The Englishman said he missed no chance to talk with people of all classes on the subject and to spread publications, translated into Dutch, that were sent to him from England for that purpose; and he strongly believed the Dutch would soon put an end to slavery. In all these talks, nothing interested Jan as much as his master’s statement that, under existing law, slaves could buy their freedom. He decided to save any small coins he might get, and in his mind he saw himself making mats and baskets after his daily work was done. But when he heard this, he already had a family of children; he doubted he could ever save enough to buy them, and his worries were much more about them than about himself. He always comforted himself believing that his mistress would never let them be sold while she lived and would certainly provide for them before she died.

Sixteen years of married life passed, and during all that time such anxious thoughts were merely passing clouds over the sunshine of contentment. But the time came when Mr. Van der Veen was called to Batavia because of some trouble in his business; three weeks later came word that he had died suddenly in that unhealthy city. Again Jan saw his mistress bowed down with sorrow, and it was beautiful to see the delicate ways nature taught him to show sympathy. He moved quietly and spoke softly. He and Zaida sang only religious hymns and soothing tunes, like those she had loved after little Lam was taken from her. His prettiest child, then nearly three years old, was sent every morning with a fresh bouquet of the flowers she loved best. He would not lie down at night until he thought she was sleeping, and his first waking thoughts were for her. It soon became known that Mr.

Van der Veen had died in debt and that a large part of his property would have to go to creditors. Many slaves in various cities were included in that property, along with some from his own household. Quite a small fortune was saved from the wreck for the widow, and in that she specially included Jan and all his family, as well as the estate where she had lived since her marriage. By this unexpected turn of events, the distant worry that had sometimes caused Jan uneasiness suddenly came terrifyingly close. From then on, he never forgot for even a day, hardly for an hour, that he was only a favored slave and that all the lives bound up with his held their privileges on the same uncertain basis. He never hinted his worry to anyone except Zaida, but Madame Van der Veen had the thoughtful kindness to assure him she would give up everything rather than part with him and his family.

She added that there was no danger of her being asked to make such a sacrifice, since enough property was left to let them all live comfortably. He felt her kindness deeply and gratefully, but the shadow of her death fell darkly across the comfort it gave. He would not have told her so for the world, for fear it would deepen her sadness by making her think that even the most devoted of her servants—the only ones she had left—wanted to be free to leave her service.

Their English neighbor, who was caught in the same business troubles that had ruined Mr. Van der Veen, decided to sell everything he owned in Java and move to Calcutta. He and his family spent their last evening with the widow of their dead friend. While Jan was arranging fruit for their refreshment in the next room, he heard his own name and Zaida’s mentioned in low tones, along with bits of sentences: “so much petted,” “the more hard,” “make provision.” In her usual gentle voice, but so clearly that he heard every word, Madame Van der Veen replied, “I have thought of all that, my good friend. I will never part with any of them while I live; and when I die, I will leave them all free.” “Why not now?” the stubborn Englishman urged. She answered, “My heart is heavy tonight, and business weighs on me; but I assure you, most solemnly, I will take care of it very soon.”

She never knew how heavy a load those words lifted from the soul of her favorite slave. After hearing them, he seemed to walk on air. Zaida, to whom he immediately told the great news, was even more excited. They hugged and kissed their little ones that night with a feeling they had never known before, and from then on their zeal to serve their good mistress doubled.

When the English family left, they gave some bright calico dresses to Zaida and the children and a violin to Jan. The old gentleman pressed a golden ducat into his hand and said, “I thank you, my good fellow, for all your attentions to me and mine. Here is a small keepsake. May God’s blessing go with it, as mine does. I will remember you all in my prayers. Farewell, Jan! Always stay faithful and honest.” The poor slave had never before owned a piece of gold, and small as it was, it seemed like a treasure to him. First he buried it in the ground and put a stone over it. Then he was afraid some creature might dig it up at night. So he sewed it into a pouch and fastened it securely inside the belt he always wore. The worries and duties of wealth had come upon him.

While his carriage was waiting to take the Englishman away, he walked over to Madame Van der Veen’s for a final farewell. His last words were, “My dear madam, do not forget the talks we have had together, especially what we said last night. Since I came to Java, I have done my best to sow good seed on this subject, and I trust it will sprout and bring a harvest, sooner or later. From time to time I will send the magistrates publications that will keep them from forgetting what I have so often urged on them. A blessing will rest on this beautiful island in proportion to how they pay attention. Remember it in your prayers, my dear friend, and use your influence rightly. Do not say it is small. You have seen in your garden how great a growth comes from one little seed. My friend, there are responsibilities in human society for which we will have to answer to our God. And now farewell. The voice of this old man will not urge you again.

May the blessing of heaven be with you all."

The tender-hearted widow wept freely, for he had been her husband’s friend, and his words were solemn. She decided to make her will, and have it properly witnessed, that very day. But a visitor came, and after she left, she felt a tiredness that kept her from doing anything. The next day she looked through her husband’s letters and gave herself a headache by crying a great deal. She was lazy by nature and by habit, and she felt gloomy. Weeks passed with no more result than a constant resolution to make her will. She went to bed with her mind full of what her English friend had said at parting and troubled by guilt that she had put it off so long.

At midnight, Zaida was called to her bedside and found her head hot and her pulse racing. By morning she was out of her head, staring wildly at her faithful servants as if she did not know them. During the day, mixed in with her confused mutterings, were the words “Jan, Zaida, children, free.” The slaves listened tearfully to these broken sentences and felt sure that she had made arrangements for them. The doctor thought otherwise, but he only said that something was troubling her mind, and if she did not live, he hoped she would have a moment of clear thinking before she died. At the sound of that terrible “if,” Jan rushed out of the room, threw himself on the floor, and sobbed uncontrollably. There was no selfishness in his grief, for he had no doubt at all that she, who never broke a promise, had carefully planned for the future of him and his family. It was simply the agony of losing his oldest and dearest friend.

She lingered four days, but her reason never returned. In that short time, Jan suffered more misery than he had in his whole life.

Gloomy fears brought in all the island superstitions. The first night his mistress fell ill, he shook his head and said, "Ah, Zaida, don’t you remember she went to Surabaya to dine on the very day we heard of master’s death? I told you then it was a very bad sign to go out on the same day you hear of a friend’s death." The next night he was startled by an odd noise, which he blamed on explosions in the distant volcanoes, and that was seen as a sure sign of coming disaster. The next day was unusually hot, and in the evening he saw a faint, glowing light over the nasturtiums in the garden. He had never seen anything like it, and he did not know that this same strange sight had been noticed before on that shining plant. He had no doubt the light came from spirits waiting for Madame Van der Veen’s soul. On the fourth morning, he saw two crows fighting in the air, and from then on he had no hope.

His beloved mistress’s spirit left her body at midnight. The rainy season was near, with its usual violent storms. The house trembled with rolling thunder, and flashes of intensely bright lightning lit up the bed where the body lay, giving a terrifying glare to its pale face. Jan and Zaida were used to such storms, but they had never seemed as dreadful as they did in the deathly quiet of that empty house. A kind neighbor felt sorry for their grief and fear and offered to stay with them until after the funeral. It was like tearing Jan’s heart out to see that dear face carried away, where he could see it no more. He was naturally very sensitive, and now his whole being was raw, hurting deeply. She was buried beside her little Lam, and he planted there the flowers she had loved most. He lay down on the ground and moaned like a faithful dog on its master’s grave.

He thought of the stories others had told about his pampered childhood; he remembered her sympathy and good advice when he had first fallen in love with Zaida; he recalled a thousand times she had been kind and indulgent; and above all, he thought of her precious gift of freedom. He could not accept that he would never again have her to rely on. He had no heart for anything but tending the flowers on those graves.

When this storm of grief began to calm, he comforted himself with the thought, “Whatever happens now, I can never suffer as I have suffered.” More than a week passed before he learned that Madame Van der Veen had left no will, that she had outlived all her close relatives, and that the nearest heir lived in Manilla. This was a crushing blow. Zaida reminded him how their good mistress had told them to pray to God when they were in trouble, and many an earnest prayer rose from their little hut. Jan decided to plead with the heir, and he comforted himself thinking that the doctor would tell him how their kind mistress had spoken of their freedom while she was sick. But even if his pleas won over the stranger, where could they live? Could they be sure of finding work? He spent every spare moment weaving mats and baskets to sell, and the children were kept busy gathering wild fruit for market.

Those things sold for very little, and it would take a long time indeed to save enough to buy a piece of land and a hut. But the gold piece! He felt for his belt to make sure it was safe. Yes, it was there—a nest egg from which his imagination hatched many chickens. Hope fought with worry for a few weeks, and Zaida, who always saw the bright side, kept saying that everything would work out. But at last word came that the heir did not intend to visit Java; he had left the business to an agent with orders to sell everything and send him the money. Poor Jan had thought he could never suffer more, but he was wrong. This last blow crushed him completely. A vision of the auction block, with his children being sold to different buyers, was always before him. The whips and screams that had made such an impression on him in his youth now echoed endlessly in his mind, but now the screams came from Zaida and his little ones.

During the three weeks before the sale, he could hardly eat or sleep. He became thin and haggard, so much that everyone who knew him felt sorry for him. But their sympathy was soon soothed by saying to themselves, “It is a hard case, but it cannot be helped. Poor fellow! I hope they find kind masters.” The doctor talked to many people in Grésik and the area, insisting there was no doubt that Madame Van der Veen had fully intended them all to be free. He told the agent how her mind had been troubled about it during her fever. The agent answered that he was very sorry the lady had left no will, but it was not his business; he had to carry out his instructions. The case drew a good deal of interest. Many Dutch residents shook their heads when they heard of it and said, "The English are right; this system is a disgrace and a blemish on our island."

All day before the auction, Jan lay moaning at his mistress’s grave. All night he wandered about, looking at the flowers in the moonlight. He had tended them so long they seemed to know him and nod a sad goodbye. Even sadder was looking at the bamboo hut and its yard, connected to the garden by a little trellis gate. That bridal home, which his kind mistress had provided and which had been hallowed by so many years of quiet happiness, had never seemed so dear to him as now. There stood the loom where he had so often watched Zaida at work. There was the gambang he had made for himself, whose sounds his dead master and mistress used to love to hear mixed with their voices, softened by the evening air as they floated across the garden. There hung the old guitar she had given him as a boy, and next to it the violin, a farewell gift from the young Englishman.

Even if he were allowed to keep these, would they ever sound again as they had sounded there? As the light of dawn revealed each familiar object, a choking pain grew in his heart. When he saw his children eating what might be their last meal together, every gourd shell holding their little portion of rice seemed more precious to him than crown jewels to a dethroned king. Overcome, he lay down on the mat and sobbed. Zaida, usually hopeful, had held up fairly well until then, but now she gave in to despair and rocked back and forth, groaning loudly. Eight children—the oldest a boy of fourteen, the youngest a girl of three—sat on the floor weeping or hiding their heads in their mother’s lap. That was how the man who came to take them to the auction in Grésik found them. Poor Jan! How often in later years had indistinct fears of this flitted through his mind when he passed that terrible place!

He remembered too well the heartless jokes and rude handling that had made him dread such a fate for his wife and children. Zaida, indeed, was no longer an object of jealousy for any cruel master’s wife. She was not hideously ugly, as most slaves her age were in that exhausting climate, but her girlhood beauty had all faded except a ghost of it still lingering in her large dark eyes. Their light was no longer merry, but they were still beautiful in color and seemed to hold, as it were, the faint echo of a laugh in their shape and long curled lashes. Beside her stood a daughter of twelve, as pretty as she had been at that age, and another of ten, with her father’s gazelle eyes and the golden-yellow complexion that Javanese poets often praise as the height of beauty. The miserable looks of the father and mother struck everyone who saw them.

When Jan mounted the stand, he cast one despairing look around, lingering longest on the smallest lamb of his flock, who was crying in terror and clinging to her mother’s skirt.

He threw his arms up, let out one loud groan, then bowed his head and wept silently. Poor Zaida hid her face on his shoulder, and the whole group trembled like leaves in a storm.

The auctioneer called out, “Here is a valuable lot, gentlemen! Eight healthy, good-looking children. The father and mother are still young enough to do much work, and both have excellent characters. Who will bid six thousand florins for them? They can have them; it will be a great bargain.” It was no comfort to the poor victims to be offered as one lot, for they might be bought by speculators who would split them up. Jan listened with all his might. Not a voice was heard. The auctioneer waited a moment before calling, “Will you say four thousand florins, gentlemen?” No one spoke. "Shall I have two thousand florins? That is really too cheap." Still all were silent.

Jan had never forgotten that his master had said the law allowed slaves to buy themselves. His poverty had until now kept him from taking any comfort in that thought. But now a ray of hope broke through his soul.

Suddenly he lifted his drooping head, and a look like the rising sun passed over his pale, haggard face as he said eagerly, “I will give a golden ducat.” Then, falling to his knees, he cried out in pleading tones, made thrilling by deep emotion, “Oh, gentlemen, don’t bid over me. It is all I have in the world. Oh, good gentlemen, don’t bid over me!” Tears came to the eyes of many of the young people, the agent swallowed hard, and even the auctioneer felt a lump in his throat. There was deep silence for a while. The pause was very brief, but to Jan’s anxious heart it seemed long enough for the world to turn on its axis.

At last they heard the heavy hammer fall, followed by the words: "The whole lot is going for a ducat. Going! Going! Gone! To Jan Van der Veen!"

It was one of humanity's inspired moments, when people are lifted above the base forces of this earth and see things as spirits see them in the light of heaven. Hats, turbans, and handkerchiefs waved, and a cheerful “Hurrah!” met the ears of the redeemed captives. Jan belonged to himself and owned his entire family! Truly, the blessing of heaven went with the Englishman’s golden ducat, far beyond what he had dreamed when he gave it. Jan could hardly believe his senses. The swing from despair to such overwhelming joy was too much for him. His head spun and his legs shook. When he tried to rise, he staggered and would have fallen if Zaida had not caught him in her arms. "Poor fellow! Poor fellow!" whispered some of the onlookers. A man took off his hat, dropped a florin into it, and passed it around, saying, “Give him something, gentlemen, to help him start over.

He has always been a good, hardworking fellow, and his mistress meant to look after him. Give him a little something, gentlemen!” There was the sound of coins falling. Zaida pulled her husband by the sleeve and whispered in his ear, “Thank the gentlemen.” He seemed half awake, but he made an effort and said, "Thank you, good gentlemen! May God bless you and your—" He was going to say children, but his eye happened to rest on his own smallest darling, and the thought that no one could take her from him now choked his words. He covered his face with his thin hands and wept.

Was the golden ducat all that poor, despairing slave owed to the good Englishman? No, that was the smallest part of the debt. For the main reason the crowd stayed silent at that mournful scene—enabling the auctioneer to call out “the whole lot going for a ducat! Going! Gone! To Jan Van der Veen! Hurrah!”—was the change in public feeling brought about by the Englishman’s conversations and the books and papers he had spread through the neighborhood.