Holland’s Legacy of Dutch Burghers-by Ananda

Pieter Keuneman

Pieter Keuneman

One would have thought that all good Burghers when they die go to Holland, but unfortunately that is not the case. Now they prefer to go to Australia to live and leaven that vast continent with their traditional contributions, spiced, I am sure, with a little bit of culture of Sri Lanka. Regular globe-trotters tell me that it is not possible these days to walk through the streets of Melbourne or Sydney without hearing the

crackle of kokis or scenting the delicate

aroma of breudher studded with a thousand raisins or listening to the sweet sounds of things like fuggetti and poffertjes struggling to be born.

Though a British Prime Minister, in a moment of pique once said: “In matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch is giving too little and asking too much,” the descendants of those who came here with the Dutch invaders have left behind a legacy of law, literature and lines of communication of which any nation could be proud. I was lucky to have been associated in my early life with three or four of the most piquant personalities of this generation, and they all happened to be Burghers.

Keuneman

During that period, once walking along the corridors of Lake House where I worked, I came across, a spruce debonair young man, with his hair neatly brushed and exuding the aroma of an expensive pomade. His clothes were cut in the latest style, I do not know whether they were Bond Street or Saville Row, because I could not aspire to anything better than the Queen’s House tailor at First Cross Street, Pettah, who had a little shop opposite F. X. Pereira’s. I asked the omniscient P. C. A. Nelson the secretary who this charming young man was, and he said with bated breath that he was Keuneman, the son of the Supreme Court judge. He had just come out from Cambridge where he was President of the Union. Not since James Peiris had we had a president of the Cambridge Union Society, and it was with a feeling of awe that we approached this thing called Keuneman. In hushed whispers my informants added he was a Communist. My idea of Communism was a, cross between a man-eater, and woman-hater. Keuneman was neither. As a matter of fact he looked not only like a human being but as one who had not yet completely shaken off the bourgeois Burgher environment from which he had sprung. He liked good food and knew the difference between cheap Spanish wine and Napoleon brandy. He could distinguish between the Russian delicacy and the rocs that pass off as caviare. Later I learned that he owed his good looks not only to his handsome father, but his grandmother, Miss Ernst, a woman who was playfully referred to at the time as the Matara diamond. I also soon discovered that, despite his academic distinctions, he was inclined to tolerate common men gladly and it was not long before all his colleagues started addressing him as Pieter.

He was a remarkable phenomenon, a disciple of Lenin eating out of the hand of Ceylon’s arch-capitalist. But D. R. Wijewardene was no fool. He knew his onions and liked them even though they were red. D. R. W. not only had a nose for news but for newsmen and then he sent Pieter in-to bat. His first few scoring strokes reached the fence. His epigrammatic and pungent style won for the “Daily News” a large number of new readers. His pieces on the topics of the day often had to be read between the lines. That was where the fun lay. The crimson streak was always there. They were, one might say, ‘fortiter in re, suaviter in modo.” To those who have forgotten their Latin the old saying can be paraphrased to mean, the red hand in the blue velvet glove.

After occupying for two or three years a ringside seat in the capitalist arena or, to put it another way, after being a sentry in what Marxists considered the Citadel of Sin, Pieter left Lake House with the blessings of the Boss to give to his Party what was meant for man kind. He tramped the streets after quitting a luxurious home to disseminate his creed.

At this stage he was assisted by his first wife, Hedi, a beautiful, Jewess, the daughter of a rich Austrian banker, whom he had converted to his way of thinking in Cambridge. Hedi had forgotten many things, but not a dinner party, which her father had given when she was a girl. There were many delicious dishes on that particular occasion but the “Piece de resistance” was the dessert. It was a slice of fresh pineapple, which had been obtained at great expense from the fruiterer in Paris. After all the guests were served, Hedi too, was given a small piece of the luscious fruit. But the memory of that taste was never erashed. Now this is the sad part of the story. When Hedi came to Ceylon it was the pineapple season and a fruit for which her father had probably paid £5 could be bought at the Borella market for 50 cents. So Hedi revived the memory of the Vienna dinner in a big way. She indulged in her weakness for her favourite fruit without compunction. She had pineapple for breakfast, pineapple with lunch, pineapple for tea and pineapple after dinner. But Hedi was allergic to the succulent fruit. Big boils broke but and her beautiful face was disfigured for a while. The tropical climate too, affected her health badly and Hedi bade goodbye to Ceylon leaving behind the memory of a sweet

personality.

Wendt

I had several other Dutch Burgher friends at Lake House. One of them was Lionel Wendt, who had been commissioned by the Boss to design and set up an up-to-date photographic studio – Chitra foto. Pianist, camera artist and brilliant conversationalist, he was regarded as the brightest spirit among the cultural elite of his time. He was like an electro-magnet. Wherever he went, men gathered round him like flies round a honey-pot. They stood and listened fascinated by the sparkle of his witticisms. A hub-bub of laughter accompanied every remark of his. He never missed a classical concert of music or a serious play. I still treasure a caustic note he sent me after seeing a poignant drama called “The Cardinal.” He was exceptionally hard on the heroine played by the daughter of a famous Colombo physician.

Wendt grew his hair long, like his teacher Mark Hambourg, and in the manner of most young men of the present generation. But there the resemblance ends. Wendt, however, neglected his health. His only physical exercise consisted of running through the musical scales on his grand piano, pedalling his way to the glorious climax of a Beethoven sonata or in the alternative lifting his beloved Leica camera on and off tripods to catch the passing mood of some interesting face no matter where. His early death was a tragic loss to art and artists. His name, however, has been immortalised by a building erected by his intimate friends. It was a well-meant effort but every week thousands of perspiring theatergoers spend their purgatory on earth before crossing over to meet their patron saint. Lionel, must be in some corner of the celestial regions practising a Bach fugue on a golden harp.

List

Talking of Dutch Burgher friends, I wish I had the space to write something of the incomparable Hilaire Jansz, journalist and gentleman, or of the versatile Arthur Van Langenberg, the man with a heart of gold. Each of them deserves much fuller treatment from abler hands than mine. Talking of the Burghers who have left their mark on the history of our age, one can provide a list, which is as long as the Dutch canal that runs between Colombo and Puttalam. I do not wish to repeat the names of celebrities like Lorenz, but there were hundreds of others whose names will ring a bell.

I am appending just a few that come readily to mind, in order to jog the memory and encourage readers to recall picturesque figures who have passed away. Here are a few: Cox Sproule, R.L.Spittel, James Van Langenberg, Evelyn Jansz, Wace de Neise, Martin Gerreyn, L.E. Blaze, Andreas Nell, Donovan Andree, Durand Altendorf, Arthur Ephraums, Frederick Dornhorst, E. H.Joseph, Percy Cooke, S.P. Foenander and Hector Van Cuylemberg. There were heaps of families, too, whose names will not be forgotten too early: The Leembrugens, Ludovicis, Greniers, Van Dorts, Colin-Thomes; Morgans, Van Rooyens, Wrights, Herfts, Princes, Kochs, Spaars, Van der Straatens, Rodes, Nicholases, Modders, Sansonis, Potgers, Beekmeyers, Albrechts, Speldewindes, Schokmans, de Kretsers, Kelaarts, Maartenszes, Ernsts, de Voses, Nelsons, Deutroms, Van Geyzels, Daniels, Vollenhovens, Orrs, Macks, Brohiers, Forbeses, Bulners, Lude-kens Milhuisens, Vanderwalls, Keegals, Driebergs, de Jongs, Christoffelsz, Buultjens, Bevens, Schraders, Loose, Martins, Bartholomeus, La Brooys, Hays, Heyns, Schneiders, Bilsboroughs, Marcuses, Ludowyks, Horans, Woutersz, Ferdinands, Martenstyns, Joachims, Casperszes, Kreltzhelms, Alvises, de la Mottes, de Zilwas and hundreds of others.

Ondaatje

Just one word more and this is from Stanley Suraweera wishes to get the Ondaatje record straight. He writes:

As I do not want a hornets’ nest bussing around my ears, although I think I richly deserve it, for dropping that brick, I have to say that what I meant to say (although I did not) was that Quint Ondaatje was the greatest Ceylonese of those who took part in European politics.

True, Quint’s grandfather, Dr. Michael Jurgen Ondaatje was an Indian from Arcot, the capital of the Carnatic in Southern India.

He came out to Sri Lanka in 1659 to medically treat the wife of Adrian vander Meyden, the first Dutch Governor of this country. He not only cured the lady but settled down here for good.

Quint of the third generation of these fabulous Ondaatjes rightly claimed to be a Ceylon national.

Author:Ananda—Sunday Island