The Hidden Force

1

OVERALL, LIFE HAD BEEN KIND to Van Oudijck. Born into a simple Dutch family with no money, he had spent his youth at a harsh, though never cruel, school. Serious from an early age, he had worked hard from the outset, looking towards the distant future, to a career, to the honourable position he was eager to assume as soon as possible among his fellow men. His time as a student of colonial administration in Delft had been fun enough for him to feel that he had once been young, and because he had once taken part in a masquerade, he actually believed that he had had a very wild youth, squandering money and painting the town red. His character was composed of a great deal of quiet Dutch solidity, a generally somewhat sombre and dreary earnestness, intellectual and practical: used to seeking his rightful place in human society, his ambition had developed rhythmically and steadily into a temperate professional ambition, but had developed only along the lines his eye tended to focus on — the hierarchical line of the Colonial Service. Things had always gone his way: his considerable capacities won him considerable esteem, he had become an assistant commissioner earlier than most and a commissioner at a young age, and his ambition had actually already been satisfied, since his position of authority was in complete harmony with his nature, whose desire for power had kept pace with its ambition. He was actually quite content, and although his eye saw much further and he glimpsed a seat on the Council of the Indies, and even the governor general’s throne, there were days when, serious and contented, he maintained that becoming a commissioner first class — besides the higher pension — had little to commend it except at Samarang and Surabaya, but East Java was very troublesome, Batavia had such an odd and almost diminished position, amid so many senior officials, members of the Council of the Indies and heads of department. And so, although he kept one eye on possible preferment, his practical and moderate nature would have been quite satisfied if someone had been able to predict that he would die as commissioner of Labuwangi. He loved his district and he loved the Indies; he felt no nostalgia for Holland or the trappings of European civilization, and yet he himself remained extremely Dutch, with a particular hatred for anything mixed-race. This was the contradiction in his character, since he had married his first, Eurasian wife purely out of love, and he loved his children, whose Indies blood was clearly apparent — outwardly with Doddy, inwardly with Theo, while René and Ricus were thoroughgoing young Eurasians — with a pronounced paternal love, full of the latent tenderness and sentimentality hidden deep inside: a need to give and receive in the bosom of the family. Gradually this need had extended to the circle of his district: he took a paternal pride in his assistant district commissioners and controllers, among whom he was popular and liked; only once in the six years that he had been district commissioner of Labuwangi had he been unable to work with a controller, a half-caste, whom after a period of patience with the man and with himself he’d had him transferred, or had fired him as he put it. And he was proud that, despite his authoritarian regime, despite his strict insistence on hard work, he was popular among his staff. He was all the more distressed by that mysterious, persistent enmity with the Prince, his “younger brother” according to Javanese titulature, in whom he would have liked to find a real younger brother, who under his tutelage governed his Javanese population. It pained him that this was his lot, and he thought of other princes, not only the noble pangéran, but others that he knew: the Prince of D—, educated, speaking and writing pure Dutch, the author of crystal-clear Dutch articles in newspapers and magazines; the Prince of S—, a little frivolous and vain but an extremely wealthy benefactor, a dandy in European society, gallant with the ladies. Why was he in Labuwangi saddled with this silent, angry, secretly fanatical shadow puppet, with his reputation as a saint and a magician, stupidly idolized by the people, in whose welfare he took no interest and who worshipped him only because of the prestige of his ancient name, and in whom he, Van Oudijck, always felt a resistance to his authority, never openly expressed but tangible beneath the Prince’s icy correctness. And on top of that, the brother in Ngajiwa, the card-player, the gambler — what had he done to deserve such princes?

Van Oudijck was in a gloomy frame of mind. He was used to receiving occasional, regular anonymous letters, slanders spat out poisonously from quiet corners — one defaming an assistant district commissioner, another a controller, then smearing the native chiefs or his own family — sometimes in the form of a friendly warning, sometimes in that of vicious schadenfreude, wishing mainly to open his eyes to the shortcomings of his officials and the misdemeanour of his wife.

He was so used to these uncountable letters, which he read fleetingly, if at all, then tore them up without the slightest concern. Since he was used to making up his own mind, the spiteful warnings made no impression on him, however much they reared their heads, like hissing snakes among all the letters that arrived daily in the post. And he’d always had such a blind spot for his wife. He had continued to see Léonie in the serenity of her smiling indifference and in the circle of domestic warmth that she certainly created around her — in the cavernous emptiness of the commissioner’s mansion that with its chairs and ottomans seemed constantly arranged for receptions — that he could never believe one jot of those slanders. He never talked about them. He loved his wife devotedly, and since in company he always saw her virtually silent, since she never flirted or behaved coquettishly, he never caught a glimpse of the depravity of her soul. In fact, he was quite blind in domestic matters. At home he had the kind of utter blindness that so often afflicts men who are extremely knowledgeable and competent in their business or professional life, eagle-eyed at work but myopic at home; used to analysing things en masse, and not the details of an individual soul; whose knowledge of humanity is based on principle, and who divides human beings into types, as if casting an old-fashioned play; who can immediately assess the work capacity of their subordinates, but who have no inkling of the psychological complexity of the members of their household, with its intertwined, tangled arabesques like overgrown vines — constantly looking over their heads, constantly missing the inner meaning of their words, with no interest in the multicoloured emotions of hate, envy and love unfolding rainbow-like before their very eyes. He loved his wife and he loved his children, because of his need for paternal feelings, for fatherhood, but he knew neither his wife nor his children. He knew nothing about Léonie and had never suspected that Theo and Doddy had secretly remained faithful to their mother, so far away in Batavia, living in unspeakable degradation, and had no love for him. He believed that they did love him, and when he thought about them, it aroused a dormant tenderness in him.

He received the poison-pen letters every day. They had never made any impression on him, but recently he no longer tore them up, but read them carefully and put them away in a secret drawer. Why, he could not have said. They were accusations against his wife, smears against his daughter. They were alarmist suggestions that he might be stabbed in the dark. They were warnings that his spies were totally unreliable. They told him that his rejected wife was living in poverty and hated him; they told him that he had a son whose existence he had ignored. They quietly rummaged about in all the dark, secret areas of his life and work. Despite himself, he felt depressed by them. It was all vague and he had nothing to reproach himself with. For himself and for the world he was a good official, a good husband and a good father, a good person. The fact that he was accused of having judged unfairly here, of having acted cruelly and unfairly there, of having rejected his first wife, of having an unacknowledged son living in the native quarters, the fact that people were slinging mud at Theo and Doddy — all this was making him gloomy at present. Because it was incomprehensible that anyone should behave in this way. For this practically minded man it was the vagueness that was most irritating. He would not fear an open conflict, but this shadow-boxing played on his nerves and his health. He had no inkling of why it was happening. There was nothing tangible. He could not picture the face of an enemy. And every day the letters came, and every day there was hostility in the shadows around him. It was too mystical for someone like him and was bound to make him bitter and gloomy. Then there appeared in the local newspapers pieces originating from a small, hostile press, accusations that were vague or demonstrably untrue. Hatred bubbled up everywhere. He could not think why, and pondering on the question was making him ill. He talked to no one about it and hid his pain deep inside.

He couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t conceive why things were as they were and becoming worse. There was no logic to it. Since the logical reaction would be for them to love him, however high and mighty and strict they found him. And indeed, did he not so often temper that authoritarian severity with the genial laugh beneath the wide moustache, under a more easygoing friendliness or warning and correction? On official tours was he not the sociable commissioner, who regarded the tour with his officials as a sport, as a wonderful excursion on horseback through the coffee plantations, calling at the coffee warehouses? Did he not regard it as a pleasant trip, which relaxed the muscles after so many weeks of office work? The great procession of district heads following on their little ponies, riding their frisky mounts like nimble monkeys, flags in hand, the gamelan orchestras sprinkling their crystalline notes of welcome wherever he went, and in the evening the carefully prepared meal in the hostels and late into the night the games of cards.

Hadn’t they said, his officials, in informal moments, that he was a commissioner after their own hearts, a tireless horseman, good company at meals and young enough to take the shawl from the dancing girl and dance with her for a moment, cleverly performing the lithe, stylized movements of the hands, feet and hips — instead of excusing himself by paying her money and letting her dance with the native official? He never felt as comfortable as on tour. And now he was gloomy, discontent, not understanding what forces were thwarting him in the dark — him, the man of honesty and light, of simple ethical principles, of serious dedication to work. He thought of going on tour soon and using the physical activity to throw off the gloom oppressing him. He would ask Theo to come with him and take some exercise for a few days. He loved his son, though he thought him unwise, rash, hot-headed, lacking perseverance in his work, never satisfied with his superiors, resisting his manager too tactlessly until he made his position untenable at yet another coffee plantation or sugar factory where he was working. He believed that Theo must make his own way in life, just as he, Van Oudijck, had done, instead of relying completely on his father’s protection and position as a district commissioner. He was not a man for nepotism. He would never prefer his son above someone else with equal rights. He had often said to nephews, who were keen on obtaining concessions in Labuwangi, that he preferred not to have relatives in his district, and that they should expect nothing from him except complete impartiality. That was how he had made it, and that was how he expected them to make it, and Theo too. And yet, he secretly observed Theo, with all his father’s love; secretly, he deeply regretted the fact that Theo lacked perseverance and no longer focused on his future, his career, an honourable place in society, based on either esteem or money. The boy lived from day to day, without a thought for tomorrow… Perhaps he was outwardly cool towards Theo: well, he would have a confidential chat with him, give him some advice, and he would ask at any rate if Theo would come on tour with him. The thought of just under six days’ riding in the pure mountain air — through the coffee plantations, inspecting the irrigation works, doing the most pleasant part of his work — so broadened his mind, clarified his outlook, that he stopped thinking about the letters. He was a man with a clear, simple view of life: of course he found life natural and not confused or complicated. His life had progressed up a visible staircase openly and gradually, with a view of a gleaming pinnacle of ambition, and he had never been able or willing to see what writhed, what churned in the dark shadows, what bubbled up from the abyss, close to his feet. He was blind to the life that operates beneath the surface. He didn’t believe in it, just as a mountain-dweller who has for a long time lived near a dormant volcano does not believe in the fire inside it, that survives deeply hidden and escapes only as hot steam or sulphurous air. He believed neither in the power above things nor in the power that resided in things themselves. He didn’t believe in silent fate or in silent gradualness. He believed only what he saw with his own eyes: in the harvest, the roads, the districts and villages, and in the prosperity of his district, in his career that he saw as an upward curve ahead of him. In this unclouded clarity of a simple male nature, in this universal axiom of just rule, just ambition and a practical sense of duty there was only one weakness: the deep tenderness that he felt for his own home, which, being blind, he did not see for what it was deep down, but only according to his fixed principles as to how his wife and his children should be.

He had not learnt from experience, since he had loved his first wife as much as he now loved Léonie.

He loved his wife because she was his wife — the centre of his circle. He loved the circle for its own sake and not the individuals, the links of which it was composed. He had not learnt from experience. He did not think according to life’s changing hues, he thought according to his ideas and principles. They had made him a man and made him powerful, as well as a good administrator. They had also generally made him, in accordance with his nature, a good person. But because there was so much unconscious tenderness in him, unanalysed and simply deeply felt, and because he did not believe in the hidden force, in the life hidden within — in what writhed and churned like volcanic fires under mountains of majesty, like troubles under a throne — because he did not believe in the mysticism of visible things, life could sometimes find him unprepared and weak, when — divinely serene and stronger than mankind — it deviated from what he thought logical.

2

THE MYSTICISM OF VISIBLE THINGS on the island of mystery called Java… outwardly a docile colony with a subject race that was no match for the rough merchants, who in the heyday of their Dutch Republic, with the youthful strength of a young nation eager and hungry for profit, rotund and cool-blooded, planted their feet and their flag in the collapsing empires, the thrones tottering as if there had been an earthquake. But deep down this island had never been conquered. Although smiling with dignified contempt — resigned, bowing to its fate — deep down, despite a grovelling veneration, it was living freely its own mysterious life, hidden from Western eyes, however hard they tried to fathom the mystery — as if there had been a philosophy of being sure to preserve one’s dignified equilibrium with a smile, giving way flexibly, apparently politely seeking rapprochement — but deep down with a divine certainty about its own opinion, and so far removed from the thinking of the rulers, the civilization of the rulers, that there would never be solidarity between master and servant, because the insurmountable distance remains, that goes on proliferating in one’s mind and blood. And the Westerner, proud of his power, of his civilization, his humanity is seated high on his throne, blind, selfish, self-obsessed within the intricate mechanism of his authority within which he operates as precisely as clockwork, controlling each revolution until to the foreigner looking from outside this conquest of the visible, this colonization of a land physically and spiritually alien, appears a masterpiece, the creation of a new world.

But beneath all this outward show lurks the hidden force, slumbering now and not ready for battle. Under all that semblance of visible things is the ominous essence of silent mysticism, like smouldering fire in the ground and like hate and mystery in the heart. Under all this calm grandeur the danger threatens, and the future rumbles like the subterranean thunder in volcanoes, inaudible to the human ear. It is as if the conquered peoples know and simply abandon the pressure of things, waiting for the sacred moment, which will come if the mysterious calculations are correct. They understand the rulers with a single searching look, see them with their illusions of civilization and humanity, and know that they do not exist. Though they give him the title of lord and the respect due to a master, they see right through his democratic businessman’s nature, and secretly despise him and judge him with a smile, comprehensible to their brothers, who smile the same way. They never contravene the code of abject servitude and with the semba greeting pretend to be inferior while secretly knowing themselves to be superior. He is aware of the unspoken hidden force: they feel the soft approach of the mystery in the sweltering hot wind from their mountains, in the silence of the mysteriously silent nights, and he has a presentiment of distant events. What is, will not always remain so: the present disappears. They harbour the unexpressed hope that one day, one day in the far distant eddies of the dawning future, God will raise up those who are oppressed. But they feel it, hope it and know it in the depths of their soul, which they never reveal to their rulers and which they never could reveal. It remains for ever like the illegible book, in an unknown, untranslatable language, in which, though the words are the same, the colours of the words are different and the nuances of two thoughts have a different spectrum: prisms in which the colours are different, as if refracting the light of two different suns — rays from two different worlds. There is never the harmony that understands; the love that feels in unison never blossoms; and between them there is always the rift, the depths, the abyss, the vast distance, the wide horizon from which the mystery softly approaches, in which, as in a cloud, the hidden force bursts forth…

So it was that Van Oudijck did not feel the mystery of visible things.

And the divine, tranquil life could find him unprepared and weak.

3

NGAJIWA WAS a more cheerful place than Labuwangi: there was a garrison; administrators and clerks often came down from the interior for some fun; twice a year there were races, and the attendant festivities took up a whole week — commissioner’s reception, horse lottery, flower parade and an opera, two or three balls, which the revellers divided into a masked ball, a gala ball and a soirée dansante: a time of early rising and late retiring, of going through hundreds of guilders in a few days at cards and at the bookmaker’s… During those days the urge for pleasure and sheer enjoyment of life simply burst out. Coffee planters and sugar clerks looked forward to those days for months; people saved for six months. People poured in from all directions, into the two hotels; every family took in lodgers; people wagered with passion in a flood of champagne, the public, including the ladies, as familiar with the racehorses as if they were their personal property; quite at home at the balls, with everyone knowing each other, as if at family parties, while the waltzes and the Washington Post and Graziana were danced with the languorous grace of the Eurasian dancers of both sexes, with a swooning rhythm, trains softly billowing, a smile of calm rapture on the half-opened mouths, with that dreamy ecstasy of dance that the dancers of the Indies, men and women, express so charmingly, not least those with Javanese blood in their veins. For them, dance is not a wild sport, crude leaping around and bumping into each other with loud laughter, not the crude confusion of the lancers at young people’s balls in Holland, rather it is pure courtesy and grace, particularly among those of mixed race: a calm unfolding of elegant movement, a gracefully described arabesque of a precise step perfectly in time across the floor of club ballrooms; a harmonious blend of almost eighteenth-century youthful, noble, flowing movement, and languorous, floating steps, accompanied by the decidedly primitive booming rhythm of the Indies musicians. That was how Addy de Luce danced, with the eyes of all the women and girls fixed on him, following him, begging him with their eyes to take them with him into the undulating swell, like dreamily entering the water… That came from his mother’s side, that was an echo of the grace of royal dancers among whom his mother had lived as a child, and the mixture of modern Western and ancient Javanese gave him an irresistible attraction…

Now, at the ball, the soirée dansante, he danced like that with Doddy and afterwards with Léonie. It was already late at night, early in the morning. Outside, the day was breaking. Exhaustion lay over the whole ballroom, and finally Van Oudijck indicated to Vermalen, the assistant commissioner with whom he and his family were staying, that he wished to leave. At that moment he was standing on the front veranda of the club, talking to Vermalen, when the prince’s assistant suddenly came straight towards him out of the shadow of the garden and, clearly upset, squatted down, made the semba and spoke: “Kanjeng! Kanjeng! Advise me, tell me what to do! The Prince is drunk and is walking about the street and has completely lost his sense of dignity.”

The revellers made their way home. The carriages trundled up to the main entrance; their owners got in and the carriages trundled off. In the road, in front of the club, Van Oudijck saw a Javanese: his upper body bare, he had lost his turban and his long black hair waved freely about, while he gesticulated violently and talked loudly. Groups formed in the dim shadows, watching from afar.

Van Oudijck recognized the Prince of Ngajiwa. The Prince had already behaved without self-control during the ball, after losing large sums at cards and drinking all sorts of different wines indiscriminately.

“Hadn’t the Prince already gone home?” asked Van Oudijck.

“Certainly, kanjeng!” wailed the prince’s assistant. I had already taken the Prince home, when I saw that he was out of control. He had already thrown himself down on his bed; I thought he was fast asleep. But as you see, he woke and got up; he left the palace and came back here. Look how he’s behaving! He’s drunk and he’s forgetting who he is and who his fathers were!”

Van Oudijck went outside with Vermalen. He approached the Prince, who was gesticulating wildly and declaiming an incomprehensible speech.

“Prince!” said the Commissioner. “Have you forgotten where and who you are?”

The Prince did not recognize him. He flared up at Van Oudijck and hurled every conceivable insult at his head.

“Prince,” said the assistant commissioner. “Don’t you know who is talking to you and whom you are talking to?”

The Prince railed at Vermalen. His bloodshot eyes flashed fury and madness. Van Oudijck tried to help him into a carriage but he refused. Sublimely grand in his downfall he revelled in the craziness of his tragedy, and stood there as if he had burst out of himself, half-naked with waving hair. His expansive gestures were no longer coarse or bestial, but became tragic, heroic. He was wrestling with his fate on the brink of an abyss… The excess of his drunkenness seemed through some strange power to lift him out of his slow descent into bestiality, and in his drunken state he grew in stature and towered dramatically high above those Europeans. Van Oudijck looked at him stupefied. The Prince was in a tussle with the assistant commissioner, who pleaded with him… Along the road the population gathered, silent, appalled: the last guests left the club and the lights were dimmed. Among them were Léonie van Oudijck, Doddy and Addy de Luce. All three of them still had the weary delight of the last waltz in their eyes.

“Addy!” said the Commissioner. “You’re on close terms with the Prince. See if he recognizes you.”

The young man spoke to the drunken madman in soft Javanese. At first the Prince went on cursing, and his crazy gestures became huge; but then he seemed to recognize in the softness of the language a familiar memory. He looked at Addy for a long time. His gestures subsided, his glorification of drunkenness petered out. It was suddenly as if his blood understood the blood of the young man, as if their souls were communicating. The Prince nodded gloomily and began to wail, at length, with his arms raised. Addy tried to help him into his carriage, but the Prince resisted: he did not want to go. Then Addy took his arm gently but firmly, and slowly walked off with him. The Prince, still wailing with a tragic, despairing gesture, let himself be led away. The Prince’s assistant followed with a few retainers, who had trailed the Prince from the palace, helplessly… The procession vanished into the darkness.

Léonie, with a smile, got into the assistant commissioner’s carriage. She remembered the argument over cards at Pajaram; she enjoyed watching such a slow, public decline, an obvious undermining through passion, uncontrolled by any tact or correct moderation. As far as she was concerned, she felt stronger than ever, because she enjoyed her passions and controlled and made them the slaves of her pleasure… She despised the Prince and it gave her a Romantic satisfaction, a literary frisson, to catch a glimpse of the successive phases of that downfall. In the carriage she looked at her husband who sat there gloomily. His gloominess delighted her, because she thought him sentimental in his support of the Javanese aristocracy. A sentimental official instruction, which Van Oudijck interpreted even more sentimentally. And she revelled in his sorrow. Then she looked at Doddy and glimpsed in her stepchild’s eyes, tired with dancing, jealousy at that very, very last waltz of hers with Addy, and she was delighted at that jealousy. She felt happy, because sorrow had no hold over her, nor did passion. She played with the elements of life and they slid off her and left her just as unmoved and calmly smiling and unwrinkled and milky-white as ever.

Van Oudijck did not go to bed. His head on fire, raging sorrow in his heart, he immediately took a bath, put on his pyjama bottoms and a jacket and ordered coffee to be brought to him on the veranda outside his room. It was six o’clock, and there was a wonderful, cool, morning freshness in the air. But he was in such a bad mood that his temples were throbbing as if congested, his heart was pounding and his nerves were trembling. He could still see the scene at dawn in his mind’s eye, flickering like a silent film, full of teeming changes in attitude. What upset him most of all was the impossibility of the incident, the illogicality, the inconceivability. That a high-born Javanese, despite all the noble tradition in his veins, could behave as the Prince of Ngajiwa had that night, had never seemed possible to him, and he would never have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. For this man of predetermined logic, this truth was simply as monstrous as a nightmare. Highly susceptible to surprises that he did not consider logical, he was angry at reality. He wondered whether he himself had not been dreaming, or drunk. The fact that the scandal had taken place infuriated him, but now that things were as they were, well, he would recommend that the Prince be dismissed… There was nothing else for it.

He got dressed, talked to Vermalen and then went with him to the Prince’s palace; they both forced their way into the Prince’s presence, notwithstanding the vacillation of the retainers, notwithstanding the breach of etiquette. They didn’t see the Prince’s wife, the radèn-ayu, but found the Prince in his bedroom. He was lying on the bed with his eyes open, coming round in a melancholy mood, but not yet sufficiently himself to understand fully the oddness of the visit, with the Commissioner and the assistant commissioner at his bedside. Although he recognized them, he did not speak. While the two officials each tried to make him see how extremely improper his behaviour had been, he stared at them brazenly and persisted in his silence. It was so strange that they looked at each other and wondered whether the Prince had not perhaps gone insane and whether he was responsible for his actions. He had not spoken a word so far, and still refused to speak. When Van Oudijck threatened him with dismissal, he remained silent, staring shamelessly into the Commissioner’s eyes. He did not part his lips, but maintained his complete silence. There was the slightest suggestion of irony around his mouth. The officials, convinced that the Prince was mad, shrugged their shoulders and left the room.

On the veranda they met the radèn-ayu, a small downtrodden woman like a beaten dog, a slave girl. She approached them in tears and asked, begged, for forgiveness. Van Oudijck told her that the Prince was still refusing to speak. No matter what he had threatened him with, the Prince had inexplicably but clearly deliberately refused to speak, The radèn-ayu then whispered that the Prince had consulted a native healer, who had given him a talisman and assured him that if he persisted in complete silence, his enemy would not be able to gain a hold over him. Anxiously she begged for help and forgiveness, gathering her children around her. After summoning the Prince’s assistant and charging him with guarding the Prince as far as possible, the officials left. Although Van Oudijck had often had to deal with Javanese superstition, it still infuriated him, contradicting as it did what he called the laws of nature and life. Yes, only superstition could lead the Javanese to stray from the true path of their innate courtesy. Whatever representation they made to him now, the Prince would remain tight-lipped, persisting in his total silence that the native healer had imposed on him. In this way he imagined himself safe from all those he considered his enemies. This preconceived notion of enmity with someone Van Oudijck would have liked to regard as a younger brother and co-administrator was what upset him most of all.

He returned to Labuwangi with Léonie and Doddy. Back home he felt a momentary pleasure at being in his own house again, a delight in his own domesticity that he had always found soothing: the material pleasure of being in his own bed, with his own desk and chairs, drinking his own coffee, prepared the way he liked it. Those small consolations restored his good humour for a second, but he immediately felt all his old bitterness returning when under a pile of letters on his desk he recognized the tortuous handwriting of a couple of shadowy letter-writers. Mechanically he opened the first and was disgusted to find Léonie’s name linked with that of Theo. Nothing was sacred to those wretches: they invented the most monstrous combinations, the most unnatural slanders, and the most gruesome allegations up to and including incest. All the mud that was slung at his wife and son raised them to an even greater height and purity in his love, to a peak of inviolability, and he loved them both with an even greater and more fervent tenderness. But all his churning bitterness brought back his ill humour in full force. It was based on reality, since he had to recommend the Prince of Ngajiwa for dismissal, and was reluctant to do so. Yet this unavoidable necessity soured his whole existence, and made him nervous and ill. When he could not follow the course that he set out, when life deviated from the events predetermined a priori by himself — Van Oudijck — this recalcitrance, this revolt by life, made him nervous and ill. After the death of the old pangéran he had simply resolved to raise up the floundering dynasty of the Adiningrats, both in loving memory of the exemplary Javanese prince and because of his mandate as a commissioner, and out of a feeling of humanity and hidden poetry in himself. And he had never been able. From the outset he had been thwarted — unconsciously, through the power of things — by the old radèn-ayu pangéran, who lost everything at cards, gambled everything away and ruined herself and her family. He had censured her as a friend. She was not unreceptive to his advice but her passion had proved stronger. Van Oudijck had immediately judged her son, Sunario, the Prince of Labuwangi, even before his father’s death, as unfit for the actual post of prince: pettily proud of his noble blood, insignificant, never informed about real life, without any talent for government or concern for the ordinary people, extremely fanatical, always consorting with native healers and with sacred calculations, always withdrawn and living in a dream of obscure mysticism, and blind to what might bring prosperity and justice to his Javanese subjects. And yet the population worshipped him, both because of his nobility and because of his reputation for holiness and far-reaching powers: a divine magical power. Secretly the women of the palace sold the water that had flowed over his body when he bathed, bottled as a medicine, a cure for various afflictions. That was what the elder brother was like, and this morning the younger had lost all control of himself, obsessed by the craving for gambling and drink… With these sons, the dynasty — once so brilliant — was tottering to its downfall: their children were young, some cousins were assistant princes in Labuwangi in neighbouring districts, but not one drop of noble blood flowed in their veins. No, he, Van Oudijck, had never been able to do what he wanted. The people whose interests he was defending were themselves fighting against him. They had no future.

But he could not understand why this had to be so; it upset and embittered him.

The fact was that he had imagined a quite different course — a splendid upward curve, the way he envisaged his own life — whereas the curve of their lives meandered chaotically downwards. He could not understand what could be stronger than him, if he wanted something. Had it not always been the case in his life and his career that whatever he wanted fervently had happened with the logic that he himself day by day had imposed on the things that were about to happen? His ambition had simply imposed that logic of the upward curve, since the aim his ambition had set itself was the restoration of this Javanese dynasty…

Would he fail? He would never forgive himself if he failed in striving to achieve an aim he had set himself as an official. Up to now he had always been able to achieve what he wanted. But what he was trying to achieve now — unbeknown to himself — was not just the aim of an official, part of his work. What he was now striving for was an aim that issued from his humanity, the noble part of himself. What he was now trying to achieve was an ideal, an ideal of a Westerner in the East, and of a Westerner who saw the East in the only way he knew how, the only way he could see it.

And he would never be prepared to admit that there were forces that combined into a single force that opposed him, that mocked his ideas, that scoffed at his ideals, and that was stronger the deeper it was hidden away: his was not the kind of nature to recognize them, and even its clearest revelation would be a mystery to his soul, and remain a myth.

4

VAN OUDIJCK had been to the office that day and on returning home was immediately met by Léonie.

“The radèn-ayu pangéran is here. She’s been here an hour, Otto. She would like to talk to you. She’s been waiting for you.”

“Léonie,” he said. “Have a look at these letters. I receive a lot of these sorts of communication, and I’ve never mentioned them to you. But perhaps it’s better if you are not left in the dark. Perhaps it’s better for you to know. But please don’t distress yourself about them. I don’t have to assure you that I don’t believe one jot of all that filth. So don’t be upset, and return the letters to me in person later. Don’t leave them lying around… And ask the Princess dowager to come to my office…”

Léonie, with the letters in her hand, brought the Princess from the back veranda. She was a dignified, grey-haired woman with a proud, regal bearing in her still slim figure. Her eyes were a sombre black; her mouth made broader by the betel juice, in which her filed-down black-painted teeth grinned, was like a grimacing mask and spoiled the lofty nobility of her expression. She wore a black satin jacket fastened with jewels. Her grey hair and sombre eyes gave her an unusual mix of venerability and smouldering passion. Her old age was tinged with tragedy. She herself felt a fate pressing tragically on her and her family, and placed her sole hope in the far-reaching, god-like power of her eldest son Sunario, the Prince of Labuwangi. While she preceded Van Oudijck into the office, Léonie glanced at the letters in the central gallery. They were vulgar verses about her and Addy and Theo. Permanently wrapped up in the dream of her own life, she never took much notice of what people were thinking and saying, because she knew she could immediately win them over again, with her appearance and her smile. She had that calm charisma that was irresistible. She never spoke ill of anyone, out of indifference; she was conciliatory and forgiving to everything and everyone; and she was popular — when she was present. But she found these dirty letters, spewed out of some dark corner, unpleasant and annoying, even though Van Oudijck did not believe them. What if he did begin to believe them? She must be prepared for that eventuality. In particular, if that day should ever come, she must retain her most charming equanimity, all her invulnerability and inviolability. Where could those letters have come from? Who hated her so much? In whose interest was it to write about her in such terms to her husband? How strange that it should have got out… Addy, Theo? How did people know? Urip? No, not Urip… But who then, who? So was everything known? The fact was that she had always thought that what happened in secret niches would never be public knowledge. She had even thought — naively — that men never talked to each other about her; about other women, yes, but not about her… Despite all her experience her mind was full of such naive illusions: a naivety that chimed with the poetry — half perverse, half childlike — of her rose-tinted imagination. So, could she not keep secret the hidden depths of her mystery, the hidden depths of reality for ever? For a moment it upset her. Despite all her propriety, reality nevertheless revealed itself… Thoughts and dreams always remained secret. Actual facts were such a nuisance. For a moment she considered being more careful in future, practising abstinence… But in her mind’s eye she saw Theo, she saw Addy, her blond and brown loves, and felt too weak… She knew she wouldn’t be able to overcome her passions, even if she controlled them. Might they not, for all her tact, one day lead to her downfall? But she found the idea laughable; she had a firm belief in her invulnerability, her inviolability. Life had no hold on her.

Still, she wanted to be prepared for possible contingencies. All she asked of her life was to be free of pain and suffering, of poverty, and to make her passions the slaves of her pleasure, so that she could continue to have pleasure for as long as possible, and live this life as long as possible. She thought over what she would say if Van Oudijck ever questioned her, if the anonymous letters sowed a seed of doubt. She asked herself if she would not break with Theo after all. Addy was enough for her. And she became absorbed in her preparations, as in the uncertain combinations of a play that had yet to begin. Until she suddenly heard the voice of the radèn-ayu pangéran in the office raised against her husband’s calm voice. She listened, curious, sensing a drama and calmly happy that this drama ran off her like water off a duck’s back. She crept into Van Oudijck’s bedroom; the dividing doors were open for ventilation and only a screen divided the bedroom and office. She peered past the screen and saw the old Princess, more agitated than she had ever seen a Javanese woman. The radèn-ayu was pleading in Malay with Van Oudijck who, in Dutch, was assuring her that it was impossible. Léonie listened more closely, and heard the old Princess begging the Commissioner to have mercy on her second son, the Prince of Ngajiwa. She begged Van Oudijck to think of her late husband, the pangéran, whom he had loved as a father, who had loved him as a son — with an affection deeper than that between an “elder and a younger brother”; she begged him to think of their illustrious past, the glory of the Adiningrats, always the loyal friends of the Dutch East India Company, in war its allies, in peace its most loyal vassals: she begged him not to decree the end of their dynasty, on which a dreadful fate had descended since the pangéran’s death, driving it into an abyss of fatal destruction. She stood before the Commissioner like Niobe, like a tragic mother, her arms raised in the powerful emotion of her words, tears streaming from her dark eyes, and her wide mouth — stained with the brown betel juice — like a grinning mask. Yet as she grinned, fluent words of persuasion and imprecation welled up; she wrung her hands in supplication, and her fist beat her breast as if in penitence.

Van Oudijck answered her in a firm but soft voice, telling her indeed how deeply he had loved the old pangéran, how highly he esteemed the old family, how no one would want more than he did to maintain them in their eminence. But then he became more severe and asked her on whom the Adiningrats could blame the fate that now pursued them. Looking her straight in the eye, he told her that it was her fault! She shrank back, bursting with rage, but he repeated it again and again. Her sons were her sons, bigoted and arrogant and addicted to gambling. And gambling, that base passion, spelt disaster for their greatness. In the insatiability of their lust for gain, their dynasty was tottering towards destruction. How often did a month go by when the Prince of Ngajiwa failed to pay the salaries of his chiefs? She admitted it was true: at her insistence her son had taken — borrowed — money from the treasury to pay gambling debts. But she also swore that it would never happen again! And where, asked Van Oudijck, had a prince, the descendant of an ancient family, ever behaved in such a way as the Prince of Ngajiwa had at the race ball? The mother wailed: it was true, it was true; fate was clinging to their steps and had clouded her son’s mind with madness, but it would never, never happen again. She swore by the soul of the old pangéran that it would never happen again, and that her son would regain his dignity. But Van Oudijck became more heated and accused her of never having exerted a positive influence on her sons and her nephews, of being the evil genius of her family, since a demon of gambling and greed had her in its clutches. The old Princess began to screech with pain, she who looked down upon the Commissioner, the Dutch commoner, that he dared speak to her in that way and was right to do so. She reached out and begged him for mercy; she begged him not to recommend her younger son to the government for dismissal, which would follow the advice of such a highly esteemed official and do as the Commissioner said. She begged him to show pity and to have patience. She would talk to her son, and Sunario would talk to his brother: they would bring him to his senses after he had been ravaged by drink, gambling and women. Oh, if only the Commissioner would show pity, if only he would relent! But Van Oudijck was implacable. He had been patient for so long. Things had come to a head. Since her son, under the influence of the native healer, trusting in his talisman, had opposed him with his insolent silence, which the Prince believed made him invulnerable to enemies — he would demonstrate that he, the Commissioner, the plenipotentiary of the government, the Queen’s representative, was the strongest, despite the native healer and the talisman. There was nothing else for it: his patience was exhausted, his love for the pangéran admitted no further indulgence; his feeling of respect for their family could not be transferred to an unworthy son. It was decided: the Prince was to be dismissed.

The Princess had listened to him, unable to believe his words, seeing an abyss gaping in front of her. And with a screech like that of a wounded lioness, with a scream of pain, she pulled the jewelled pins out of her knot so that her long grey hair streamed down around her; in a single movement she tore open her jacket; no longer able to control her pain and despair that rose like a mist from the gaping abyss, she threw herself at the feet of the European, grabbed his foot violently with both hands and planted it on her bent neck in a single movement that threw Van Oudijck off balance, and she screamed out that she, the daughter of the sultans of Madura would be his slave for ever if he would just this once have mercy on her son, and not plunge her family into the abyss of disgrace, which she saw gaping around her. And she clung to the European’s foot with the strength of despair, and kept that foot, with the sole and heel of the shoe, like a yoke of slavery pressed into her streaming grey hair, her neck bent to the ground. Van Oudijck was trembling with emotion. He realized that this haughty woman would never, apparently spontaneously, humiliate herself in the deepest way she could think of, would never abandon herself to the most violent expression of grief that a woman could ever show — with her hair loose, and the ruler’s foot on her neck — if she were not shocked to the depths of her being, if her despair had not reached the point of self-destruction. He hesitated for a moment, but no more than a moment. He was a man of well-pondered principles, of pre-established logic: immutable in decision-taking, never susceptible to impulse. With immense respect he finally freed his foot from the vicelike grip of the Princess, reached out to her with both hands and lifted her up from the floor with great deference and with obvious sympathy. She flopped into a chair, broken and sobbing. For a moment she thought she had won, sensing his soft-heartedness. But when he shook his head calmly but firmly to indicate a negative decision she realized it was all over. She gasped for breath, half-fainting, still with her jacket open, her hair loose. At that moment Léonie entered. She had seen the drama being enacted before her very eyes and felt moved as if by a work of literature. She experienced something akin to pity. She approached the Princess, who threw herself into her arms, seeking the support of another woman in the helpless despair of the inevitable catastrophe. And Léonie, her beautiful eyes focused on Van Oudijck, muttered a single word of intercession and whispered: “Give in!” It represented a living blossoming of pity in her arid soul. “Give in!” she whispered again. And for the second time Van Oudijck hesitated. He had never before refused his wife anything, however costly her request. But this meant the sacrifice of his principles: never going back on a decision, the firm implementation of a desired course of events. That is how he had always controlled the future. He had never shown any weakness, and he said it was impossible.

Perhaps if he had given way, his life would have turned out differently. Yet he had no inkling of the sacred moments when a man must not assert his own will, but must be piously carried along by the impulse of the silent powers. He did not respect, acknowledge or comprehend such powers, and never would. He was a man with a lucid, logical, simple male sense of duty; a man of the clear, simple life. He would never know the silent forces lurking beneath the simple life. He would have scoffed at the suggestion that there are peoples who have more control of that force than Westerners. The very idea that there are a few individuals among those peoples in whose hands the force loses its omnipotence and becomes a tool — would make him shrug his shoulders and continue on his way. No experience would teach him. Perhaps he would be perplexed for a moment… But then, immediately afterwards, his man’s hand would firmly grasp the chain of his logic and fit the iron factual links together…

Perhaps, if he had given in, his life would have turned out differently.

He saw Léonie helping the old Princess, broken and sobbing, out of his office.

A deep emotion, a pity that touched him to the core, brought tears to his eyes, and through those tears there appeared the image of the Javanese whom he had loved like a father.

But he did not give in.

5

THERE WERE REPORTS from Ternate and Halmaheira that a terrible submarine earthquake had devastated a group of islands in the area, that whole villages had been washed away and that thousands were homeless. The telegrams had caused greater consternation in Holland than in the Indies, where people were more accustomed to earthquakes at sea and on land. There had been much talk about the Dreyfus trial in France, and people were beginning to discuss the Transvaal, but almost nothing was said about Ternate. Nevertheless, a coordinating committee was set up in Batavia and Van Oudijck convened a meeting. It was decided to arrange a charity gala in the club and its gardens as soon as possible. Mrs Van Oudijck, as usual, left everything to Eva Eldersma and took no part at all. For a fortnight, a frenzy of activity engulfed Labuwangi. In the deathly quiet provincial Indies town, a tumult of petty passions, jealousies and enmities arose. Eva had her loyal clique — the Van Helderens, the Doorn de Bruijns, the Rantzows — and, competing with them, all kinds of little coteries. So-and-so had fallen out with so-and-so; so-and-so wasn’t taking part because so-and-so was; so-and-so insisted on taking part just because Mrs Eldersma must not think she was almighty; and X and Y and Z felt that Eva was getting above herself and mustn’t imagine she was the local first lady, just because Mrs Van Oudijck left everything to her. However, Eva had spoken to the commission and agreed to organize the event, but only if she had a totally free hand. She had no objection to the Commissioner choosing someone else to run the show, but if he chose her, a completely free hand was a precondition, because having to accommodate twenty different opinions and tastes would mean endless discussions. Van Oudijck laughed and gave in, but impressed upon her that she mustn’t upset people, must respect people’s feelings and be as conciliatory as possible so that the charity gala would leave behind pleasant memories. Eva promised: she was not argumentative by nature.

Doing something — organizing something, achieving something, expressing her artistic energy — was Eva’s main joy, her consolation in the dreariness of Indies life. Because although she had found much in the Indies that she had come to love and admire, social life for her, with the exception of her little group, lacked all attraction. But now the chance of organizing a gala, one that would be talked of as far away as Surabaya, flattered her vanity and her energy.

She sailed through every difficulty, and because people realized that she knew best and had the most practical solutions, they let her have her own way. But while she was busy devising her fancy fair stalls and tableaux vivants, and while the pressure of preparations for the gala spread through the principal families of Labuwangi, something seemed to spread through the soul of the native population, nothing as frivolous as charitable festivities. For the past few days the Chief of Police, who presented a brief report to Van Oudijck every morning, usually in just a few words — that he had made his rounds and found everything in order — was having longer conversations with his superior, and seemed to have weightier matters to report to him; and the attendants whispered more mysteriously outside the office. The Commissioner summoned Eldersma and Van Helderen, and the secretary wrote to Vermalen in Ngajiwa to the commanding officer of the garrison; and the controller patrolled the town more and more often, at unaccustomed hours. In their flurry of activity the ladies sensed little of the mysterious activity, and only Léonie, who was not concerned with the gala, noticed an unusual, silent concern in her husband. She quickly and accurately sensed that something was wrong, and since Van Oudijck — who was in the habit of often talking about business at home — had been tight-lipped for the last few days, she asked where the Prince of Ngajiwa was now that he had been dismissed by the government at the instigation of Van Oudijck, and who was to replace him. His vague reply put her on her guard and worried her. One morning, passing through her husband’s bedroom, she was struck by the whispered conversation between Van Oudijck and the Chief of Police, and she listened for a moment with her ear to the screen. The conversation was muted because the garden doors were open: the attendants were sitting on the garden steps; a few gentlemen, needing to speak to the Commissioner, were walking up and down the side veranda after writing their names on a slate, which the head attendant had brought in. But they had to wait, because the Commissioner was talking to the Chief of Police… Léonie listened by the screen. And she turned pale when she caught a few words. She went quietly to her room, afraid. At lunch she asked if it would really be necessary for her to attend the gala, since she had been having such a toothache recently, and she needed to go to Surabaya to the dentist. It would take some time: she had not been to the dentist for ages. But Van Oudijck, severe in his gloomy mood of secret concern and silence, told her that she couldn’t go, that she must be present on an evening like that of the gala, as the district commissioner’s wife. She pouted, sulked and held a handkerchief to her mouth, making Van Oudijck nervous. That afternoon she didn’t sleep, didn’t read, didn’t dream because of her unusual agitation. She was afraid and wanted to get away. And at afternoon tea in the garden she started crying, saying that her toothache was making her head hurt and she was becoming ill, that she could not stand it any more. Van Oudijck, nervous and worried, was touched; he could never bear to see her cry. And he gave in, as he always did to her, where her personal affairs were concerned. The following day she left for Surabaya, where she stayed at the commissioner’s house and really did have the dentist treat her teeth. It was always wise to do it once a year. This time it cost her about five hundred guilders.

By now, casually, the other ladies also sensed something of what was happening in Labuwangi behind a haze of mystery. Because Ida van Helderen told Eva Eldersma, her tragic white Eurasian eyes aghast with fear, that her husband and Eldersma and the Commissioner too were afraid of a revolt by the population, stirred up by the Prince’s family, which could never forgive the dismissal of the Prince of Ngajiwa. However, the men gave nothing away and reassured their wives. But a dark turbulence continued to bubble under the ostensible calm of their provincial life. And gradually the rumours leaked out and alarmed the European population. Vague reports in the newspapers — commenting on the dismissal of the Prince — also played a part. Meanwhile, the busy preparations for the gala continued, but people were no longer involved heart and soul. People’s lives were hectic and restless, and they became sick with nerves. At night, houses were made more secure, weapons put out close to hand; people woke suddenly in a fright, listening to the muffled sounds of the night in the great outdoors. Opinion condemned the hastiness of Van Oudijck, who after the scene at the ball following the races had no longer been able to exercise any patience, and had not hesitated to recommend the dismissal of the Prince, whose family was so attached to and so identified with the territory of Labuwangi.

The Commissioner had authorized for the native population an evening market on the square in front of the commissioner’s mansion, which would last several days and coincide with the gala. There would be popular festivities, with many stalls and booths, and a Malay theatre company performing scenes from the Arabian Nights. As a favour to the Javanese population, which was much appreciated, he had decreed this to be at the same time that the Europeans were celebrating. There were now only a few days to go to the gala and the day before, quite coincidentally, the monthly management meeting was to be held at the palace.

The anxiety, the bustle, the nervousness caused such a stir in the otherwise invariably quiet town that it made people almost ill. Mothers sent their children away and were themselves in two minds. But the gala made people stay. Did they want to miss the gala? Treats were so rare here. But if there really was… a rebellion! And people didn’t know what to do: people were undecided whether to take seriously the murky threat that they sensed, or to make light-hearted fun of it.

The day before the meeting, Van Oudijck requested an audience with the Princess, who lived with her son. His carriage drove past the booths and stalls on the square, and through the decorative gates of the evening market. This evening was to be the first evening of the festivities. They were putting the finishing touches and in the hive of activity and hammering and arranging, the natives did not always squat down for the Commissioner’s carriage, and did not see the gold sunshade, which the attendant held on the box like a furled sun. But when the carriage drove past the flagpole into the palace driveway and people saw that the Commissioner was going to visit the Prince, groups formed, and people spoke in heated whispers. They thronged about the entrance to the drive, and tried to catch a glimpse of proceedings. But the population could see nothing except the dim outline of the empty pavilion, with its rows of expectant chairs. The Chief of Police, who at that moment suddenly rode past on his bicycle, made the gatherings scatter as if by instinct.

The old Princess waited for the Commissioner on the front veranda. A calm lay over her dignified face and did not allow one to read her inner turmoil and feelings. She motioned the Commissioner to sit and the conversation began with the usual formalities. Then four servants approached quickly, half-squatting and half-crawling across the ground: one with a crate full of bottles, another with a tray carrying a quantity of glasses, a third with a silver ice bucket full of ice cubes, the fourth not carrying anything but performing the semba. The Princess asked the Commissioner what he wanted to drink and he said he would like a whisky and soda. The last servant, still moving between the three others on his haunches, prepared the drink, poured in the measure of whisky, opened the soda-water bottle like a cannon and dropped an ice cube like a miniature glacier into the glass. Not a word had yet been spoken. The Commissioner first allowed the drink to stand, and the four servants left on their haunches. Then, finally, Van Oudijck began and asked the Princess if he could say in complete confidence what was on his mind. She begged him politely to do so. In his firm, muted voice, he said to her, in Malay, in very courteous phrases full of friendship and flowery politeness, how high and great his love for the Prince had been and still was for his illustrious family, even though he, Van Oudijck had with the deepest regret had to act contrary to that love, because his duty demanded it of him. And he asked, if that were possible for a mother, not to bear him any ill will for performing his duty; he asked her, on the contrary, to feel like a mother towards him, the European official, who had loved the Prince like a father, to work with him, the official, as the mother of the Prince, by exercising her great influence as far as possible for the welfare and prosperity of the population. In his piety and his distant focus on invisible things, Sunario sometimes lost sight of factual, self-evident reality; well, he, the Commissioner, was asking her, the powerful, influential mother, to cooperate with him, in harmony and love, on those matters that Sunario overlooked. In the elegance of his Malay he opened his heart completely, and told her of the turmoil that had been brewing for days among the population, like a noxious poison that could only intoxicate it and might lead it to commit acts that would be bound to cause deep regret. And with those last words “deep regret” he indicated to her, between the lines, that the government would be the stronger, and that a dreadful punishment would befall those who were proved guilty, both high and low. But his language remained supremely courteous and his words respectful, like those of a son addressing a mother. She, although she understood the tenor of his words, appreciated the tactful grace of his manners, and the flower-strewn depth and seriousness of his language made him rise in her estimation and almost astonished her — in a Dutch commoner, without noble blood or breeding. But he went on, and did not say to her what he knew very well, that she was the instigator of this dark turmoil — though he did say it was excusable, that he understood that the population sympathized with her in her sorrow at her unworthy son, himself a descendant of the noble family, and that it was therefore natural that the people should feel deeply for their old Princess, even if that sympathy was in this case unreasonable and illogical. For her son was unworthy, the Prince of Ngajiwa had proved himself unworthy, and what had happened could not have happened differently. His voice became stern for a moment and she bowed her grey head, remained silent and appeared to accept what he said. Now his words became more tender again and once more he asked for her help in exercising her influence for the best. He had complete confidence in her. He knew that she upheld the tradition of her family, the loyalty to the Dutch East India Company, the unimpeachable loyalty to the government. He was asking her to exercise her power and influence in such a way, to use the love and veneration she inspired in such a way that she, together with him, the Commissioner, might quieten what was churning in the darkness; that she would bring to their senses those who did not reflect; that she would pacify what threatened in secret — thoughtlessly and frivolously — the worthy and powerful authority. While he flattered and threatened at the same time, he felt that she — although she said scarcely a word, but simply punctuated his words with her saya—was becoming susceptible to his more powerful influence as a man of tact and authority, and that he was causing her to reflect. He could see that as she reflected the hate subsided in her, the vengefulness became paralysed, and that he was breaking the energy and pride of the ancient blood of the sultans of Madura. Beneath his flowery language, he gave her a glimpse of complete downfall, the heavy penalty, the government’s power that remained superior. And he bent her into the old suppleness in bowing before the power of the rulers. He taught her that, against her impulse to rise up and throw off the hated yoke, it was better to be sensible and calm and to submit once again. She nodded gently in agreement, and he felt he had overpowered her, which awakened a sense of pride in him. And now she spoke, and promised with her inwardly weeping, broken voice, saying that she loved him like a son, that she would do as he wished and would certainly exert her influence outside the palace in the town to abate these threatening troubles. She denied any responsibility and said that they had originated from the unthinking love of the population, which sympathized with her because of her son. She repeated his own words back to him, but did not use the word “unworthy”, since she was his mother, and again she repeated that he could trust her, that she would do as he wished. Then he told her that tomorrow he would be coming to the monthly council with all his officials and with the native chiefs, and said that so great was his trust in her that all the Europeans would be unarmed. He looked into her eyes. He was threatening her more by saying this than if he had mentioned weapons. For simply by the intonation of his Malay, he was threatening her with the punishment — the revenge — of the government if as much as one hair on the head of his officials were harmed. He had got to his feet. She also got up, wrung her hands, begging him not to speak in this way and to trust her and her son completely. And she summoned Sunario, the Prince of Labuwangi, and Van Oudijck repeated yet again that he hoped for peace and reflection, and in the tone in which the old Princess used with her son, he felt that she wanted there to be reflection and peace. He felt that she, the mother, was all-powerful in the palace.

The Prince bowed his head, agreed, promised, even said that he had already issued orders to calm the situation, that he had always deplored the excitement of the people, and it caused him great sorrow, that the Commissioner had become aware of it, despite his — Sunario’s — attempts to calm things down. The District Commissioner did not probe any further into this sample of dishonesty. He knew that the turmoil was being whipped up from within the palace, but he also knew that he had prevailed. However, he impressed once more on the Prince his responsibility should anything untoward happen in the pavilion the following day, during the meeting. The Prince begged him not to think of such things. And now, in order that they should part on good terms, he implored Van Oudijck to sit down again. He sat down, and as he did so he knocked over his glass, the sparkling ice-cold contents of which he had not yet touched. It clattered to the ground. He apologized for his clumsiness. The Princess had noticed his movement and her old face paled. She said nothing but beckoned a servant. And again the four servants appeared half-squatting, half-creeping, and prepared another whisky and soda. Van Oudijck put the glass immediately to his lips.

There was an embarrassed silence. How far the action of the District Commissioner in knocking over the glass had been justified would always remain a mystery and he would never know. But he wanted to show the Princess, in coming here, that he was prepared for anything before their conversation, and after their conversation wished to trust her completely in everything. Both in the drink that she offered him, and the following day in the pavilion, where he and his officials would appear unarmed, if her benign influence would bring calm and peace to the population. As if to show that she understood him, and that his confidence would be justified, she got up and whispered a few words to a retainer whom she had beckoned. The Javanese disappeared and soon came all the way down the front veranda squatting, carrying a long object in a yellow sheath. The Princess took it from him and handed it to Sunario, who drew a walking stick from the yellow silk sheath, which he offered to the Commissioner as a token of their fraternal friendship. Van Oudijck accepted it, understanding its symbolic meaning. The yellow silk was the colour and material of authority: silk and yellow or gold; the stick itself was made of a wood that protects against snake bites and danger, and the heavy knob was worked in gold — the metal of authority — in the shape of the ancient sultan. This stick, offered at this moment, meant that the Adiningrats were again submitting to his authority and that Van Oudijck could trust them.

And as he took his leave, he was very proud and pleased with himself for having won the day through tact, diplomacy, knowledge of the Javanese: he would have averted the imminent rebellion just with words. That would be a fact.

That was so, that would be so: a fact. On that first evening of the market, cheerfully glowing with the light of hundreds of paraffin lamps, steaming enticingly with low-drifting smells of frying, full of the multicoloured jostling of the celebrating population — that first evening was pure festivity and the population discussed among themselves the Commissioner’s long courtesy visit to the Prince and his mother, since the carriage with the sunshade had been seen waiting for a long time in the drive, and the Prince’s retainers told them the story of the gift of the walking stick.

That was so: things happened as Van Oudijck had calculated and forced them to in advance. That he should be proud was only human, but what he had not dominated and thought of in advance were the hidden forces, of which he had no inkling and whose existence he would deny, always, in the natural simplicity of life. What he failed to see, hear or feel, was the deeply hidden force, which though it abated continued to smoulder like a volcanic fire beneath the apparently calm avenues of flowers and friendship: the hatred, which would have the power of impenetrable mystery against which he, as a Westerner, had no defence.

6

VAN OUDIJCK LIKED TO BE CERTAIN he had achieved his objective. He didn’t say much that day about his visit to the palace, or that evening when Eldersma and Van Helderen came to talk to him about the meeting that was to take place the following morning. They were both rather uneasy and asked whether they should be armed. But Van Oudijck very firmly and emphatically forbade them to bring weapons with them, and said that no one was authorized. The officials yielded, but no one was at ease. However, the meeting took place completely uninterrupted and in harmony; there were just more people about between the stalls of the evening market, there were more police at the decorated gates, with rippling strips of bunting. But nothing happened. The women at home were anxious and were relieved when their husbands returned safely. And Van Oudijck had achieved his objective. Sure of himself, trusting the Princess, he made a few visits. He reassured the ladies and told them to concentrate all their attention on the gala. But they were not convinced. Some families locked all their doors in the evenings and retreated to the central gallery with their friends and maids — armed, listening, on their guard. Theo, to whom his father had spoken in a confidential moment, played a practical joke on them with Addy. The two young men visited in turn all the houses that they knew were most fearful and forced their way onto the front veranda, shouting to the occupants to open up: they could already hear guns being cocked in the central gallery. They had a whale of a time.

Then the gala finally opened. On the stage of the social club Eva had organized a series of three tableaux from the Arthurian legend: Viviane, Guinevere and Lancelot; in the centre of the garden there was a Maduran proa, in the shape of Viking ship, where one could drink iced punch; a neighbouring sugar factory, well known for the cheerful atmosphere that prevailed there, had provided a complete Dutch pancake stall as a nostalgic reminder of Holland, with the women dressed as Frisian farmer’s wives and the factory workers as cook’s assistants; and pro-Transvaal feelings were vented with a Mayuba Hill mock-up with ladies and gentlemen in fantastic Boer costumes. There was no mention of the huge under-sea eruption in Ternate, although half the proceeds had been assigned to the stricken areas. Beneath the glowing festoons of Chinese lanterns that wound their way above the garden, there was great enjoyment and the urge to spend a great deal of money, especially for Transvaal. But beneath the party atmosphere there was still a tremor of fear. Groups gathered and there were furtive glances outside at the bustle of half-castes, Javanese, Chinese and Arabs on the road around the smoking portable kitchens. And while sipping a glass of champagne or nibbling a plate of pancakes, people pricked up their ears and listened to the square, where the evening market was in full swing. When Van Oudijck appeared with Doddy, greeted by the strains of the Dutch national anthem, and generously distributed coins and notes, people kept whispering secretly in his ear. And noticing the absence of Mrs Van Oudijck, people asked each other where she was. She had such bad toothache, they said, and that was why she had gone to Surabaya. People didn’t think it was very nice of her; she was not liked when she was not present. She was much discussed that evening, and the most scandalous things were said about her. Doddy took her place on the Maduran proa as a server, and Van Oudijck, with Eldersma, Van Helderen and a few controllers from other districts, went around buying drinks for his officials. When people asked him about secret information, casting anxious glances outside, with one ear on the square he reassured them with a majestic smile: nothing was going to happen, they had his word of honour on that. People found him very trusting and very sure of himself; the jovial smile around his wide moustache was reassuring. He urged everyone to think only of the fun and the charitable aim of his dear town of Labuwangi. And when suddenly the Prince, Radèn Adipati Sunario, appeared with his wife, the young radèn-ayu, and at the entrance paid for bouquets, programmes and fans with a hundred-guilder note, a sigh of relief went through everyone in the garden. News of the Prince’s hundred-guilder note had soon spread everywhere. And now people relaxed; they realized that there was no need for fear, that no rebellion would break out that evening. They fêted the Prince and his smiling young wife, sparkling in her beautiful jewels.

Out of sheer relief, suddenly relaxed and impulsive, people spent more and more money, trying to vie with the few wealthy Chinese — those from before the opium monopoly, the owners of the white marble and stucco palaces — there strewing coins with their wives, in embroidered grey and green Chinese dresses, their gleaming hair full of flowers and jewels, smelling strongly of sandalwood perfumes. The money flowed, jingling into the tins of the happy servers. And the gala was a success. And when Van Oudijck finally and gradually disclosed here and there — to Doorn de Bruijn, Rantzow, officials from elsewhere — a few details of his visit to the palace and his conversation with the Princess, relayed in a humble, unassuming tone and yet, despite himself, beaming with happy pride, with joy at his victory — that was when he achieved his greatest effect.

The story went round the garden about the Commissioner’s tact and shrewdness in having averted revolution by his word alone. He was lionized, and he poured champagne for everyone, bought up all the fans, bought all the unsold tombola tickets. He was worshipped; it was his supreme moment of success and popularity. And he joked with the ladies, flirted with them. The party went on until six o’clock in the morning. The pancake cooks were drunk and dancing cheerfully around the pancake oven.

And when Van Oudijck finally went home, he felt a mood of self-satisfaction, strength, happiness, delight in himself. The evening had made him rise in his own estimation and he valued himself more than ever before. He felt happier than he had ever felt.

He had sent the carriage home and walked home with Doddy. A few early traders were going to market. Doddy, half-asleep, dead tired, dragged herself along on her father’s arm…

Then, nearby, someone passed and although she felt it more than saw it, she suddenly shivered and looked up. The figure had passed. She looked round and recognized the back of the haji, who was in a hurry…

She felt so cold she almost fainted. But then, tired to the point of almost sleepwalking, she realized she was half-dreaming of Addy, of Pajaram, of the moonlit night under the cemaras, when at the end of the avenue the white pilgrim had given her a fright…