CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Labuwangi came to life again. It was as though people unanimouslyagreed not to discuss the strange affair any further with outsiders,because it was so excusable that any one should refuse to believe inthe thing; and they, at Labuwangi, believed. And the up-country town,after the mystic oppression under which it had lain cowering duringthose unforgettable weeks, came to life again, as though shakingoff all its obsession. Party followed upon party, ball upon ball,theatricals upon concert: all threw open their doors to entertaintheir friends and make merry, in order to feel natural and normalafter the incredible nightmare. People so accustomed to the naturaland tangible life, to the spacious and lavish material existenceof India--to good cooking, cool drinks, wide beds, roomy houses,to everything that represents physical luxury to the European in theeast--such people breathed again and shook off the nightmare, shookoff the belief in strange happenings. If and when they discussedthe thing nowadays, they commonly called it that incomprehensibleconjuring--echoing the resident--the regent's conjuring-tricks. Forthat the regent had something to do with it was certain. Thatthe resident had held a terrible threat over him and his mother,if the strange happenings did not cease, was certain. That, afterthis, order had been restored in everyday life was certain. So itwas conjuring. All were now ashamed of their credulity and theirfears and of having shuddered at what had looked like mysticism andwas only clever conjuring. And all breathed again and made up theirminds to be cheerful; and entertainment followed upon entertainment.
Leonie, amid all this dissipation, forgot her irritation at havingbeen recalled by Van Oudijck. And she too was determined to forgetthe scarlet pollution of her body. But something of its terrorlingered in her. She now bathed early of an afternoon, as early ashalf-past four, in the newly-built bathroom. Her second bath alwaysgave her a certain shudder. And, now that Theo had a job at Surabaya,she got rid of him, also, from terror. She could not get rid of theidea that the enchantment had threatened to punish both of them, themother and son, who were bringing shame on the home. In the romanticside of her perverse imagination, in her rosy fancy full of cherubsand cupids, this idea, inspired by her fears, struck too precious anote of tragedy for her not to cherish it, for all that Theo mightsay. She would go no further. And it made him furious, because hewas mad with love for her, because he could not forget the shamefulhappiness which he had enjoyed in her arms. But she steadily refusedhim and told him of her dread and said that she was certain that thewitchcraft would begin again if they two loved each other, he and hisfather's wife. Her words drove him scarlet with fury, on the one Sundaywhich he spent at Labuwangi: he was furious with her non-compliance,with the motherly attitude which she now adopted and with the fact, ofwhich he was well aware, that she saw Addie often, that she often wentto stay at Patjaram. Addie danced with her at parties and hung overher chair at concerts, in the improvised residential box. True, he wasnot faithful to her, for it was not his nature to love one woman--heloved women wholesale--but still he was as faithful to her as he wasable to be. He inspired her with a more lasting passion than she hadever felt before; and this passion roused her from her usual passiveindifference. Often, in company, suffering and inflicting boredom,enthroned in the brilliance of her white beauty, like a smiling idol,with the langour of her years in India gradually filling her blooduntil her movements had acquired that lazy indifference for anythingthat did not spell love and caresses, until her voice had assumeda drawling accent in any word that was not a word of passion: oftenthe flame which Addie shed over her would transfigure into a youngerwoman, livelier in company, gayer, flattered by the persistent homageof this youth, on whom every girl was mad.
And she delighted in monopolizing him as much as she could, tothe vexation of all the girls and of Doddie in particular. In themidst of her passion, she also took an evil pleasure in tantalizing,merely for tantalizing's sake: it gave her an exquisite enjoyment;it made her husband jealous--perhaps for the first time, for shehad always been very careful--and made Theo and Doddie jealous; shearoused the jealousy of every young married woman and every girl;and, since she stood above all of them, as the resident's wife,she had an ascendancy over all of them. When of an evening shehad gone too far, she delighted in winning back, with a smile,with a gracious word, the place in their affection which she hadlost through her flirtations. And, strange though it might seem,she succeeded. The moment they saw her, the moment she spoke,smiled and exerted herself to be amiable, she won back all she hadlost and was forgiven everything. Even Mrs. Eldersma allowed herselfto be conquered by the strange charm of this woman who was neitherwitty nor intelligent, who merely became just a little livelier,who roused herself a little from her boring lethargy, who triumphedonly through the lines of her body, the contour of her face, theglance of her strange eyes, restful and yet full of hidden passion,and who was conscious of all her charm because she had meditated uponit since her childhood. Together with her indifference, this charmconstituted her strength. Fate seemed to have no hold upon her. Forit had indeed touched her with a strange magic, until she thoughtthat a chastisement was about to descend upon her, but it had goneits way again, drifted away. But she accepted the warning. She haddone with Theo and henceforth affected a motherly attitude towardshim. It made him furious, especially at these parties, now that shehad grown younger, livelier and more seductive.
His passion for her began to burn to hatred. He hated her now,with all the instinct of a fair-haired native, for that was whathe really was, despite his white skin. For he was his mother's sonrather than his father's. Oh, he hated her now, for he had felthis fear of the punishment only for an instant and he ... he hadforgotten everything by now! And his one idea was to injure her--howhe did not yet know--but to injure her so that she might feel painand suffer. The process of thinking it over imparted a Satanic gloomto his small, murky soul. Although he did not think about it, he feltunconsciously that she was as though invulnerable; he even felt thatshe boasted inwardly of her invulnerability and that it made her dailymore brazen and indifferent. She was constantly staying at Patjaram,on any excuse that offered. The anonymous letters which Van Oudijckstill often showed her no longer disturbed her; she was growingaccustomed to them. She returned them to him without a word; once sheeven forgot them, left them lying about in the back-verandah. OnceTheo read them. In a sudden flash of light, due to he knew notwhat, suddenly he seemed to recognize certain characters, certainstrokes. He remembered, in the compound, near Patjaram, the hut,half bamboo, half packing-case-boards, where he and Addie de Luce hadbeen to see Si-Oudijck and the papers hastily raked together by anArab. He had a vague recollection of seeing those same characters,those strokes, on a scrap of paper on the floor. It passed vaguelyand quick as lightning through his head. But it was no more thana lightning-flash. His small, murky soul had room for nothing butdull hatred and troubled calculation. But he had not sense enoughto follow out that calculation. He hated his father by instinctand innate antipathy; his mother, because she was a half-caste;his step-mother, because she had finished with him; he hated Addieand Doddie into the bargain; he hated the world, because it made himwork. He hated every berth he had ever had: he now hated his office atSurabaya. But he was too lazy and too muddle-headed to do harm. Rackhis brains as he might, he could not discover how to harm his father,Addie and Leonie. Everything about him was vague, turbid, dissatisfied,indistinct. The object of his desire was money and a fine woman. Beyondthis, he had nothing in him but the dull-witted gloom and discontentof the fat, fair-haired Eurasian that he was. And he continued tobrood impotently over his murky thoughts.
Until now, Doddie had always been very fond of Leonie,instinctively. But she was no longer able to conceal the fact fromherself: what she had first thought an accident--mamma and Addie alwaysseeking each other with the same smile of allurement, one drawing theother the length of the great room, as though irresistibly--was not anaccident at all! And she too hated mamma now, mamma with her beautifulcalmness, her sovereign indifference. Her ow
n violent passionatenature was coming into collision with that other nature, with itsmilk-white, creole languor, which now for the first time, late inthe day, because of the sheer kindliness of fate, was letting itselfgo as it pleased, without reserve. She hated mamma; and her hatredresulted in scenes, scenes of nervous, loud-voiced temper in Doddiecontrasting with the irritating calmness of mamma's indifference,scenes caused by all sorts of little differences of opinion: a visit,a ride on horse-back, a dress, a spice or condiment which the oneliked and the other did not. Then Doddie wanted to have her cry outon papa's breast, but Van Oudijck would not admit that she was in theright and said that she must show more respect to mamma. But once,when Doddie had come to him for consolation and he reproached her forgoing for walks with Addie, she screamed out that mamma herself was inlove with Addie. Van Oudijck angrily ordered her out of the room. Butit all agreed too closely--the anonymous letters, his wife's new-bornflirtations, Doddie's accusations and what he himself had noticed atthe last few parties--not to give him food for reflection and evento worry him. And, once he began to worry and reflect upon it all,memories came suddenly darting into his mind like lightning-flashes:memories of an unexpected visit; of a locked door; of a moving curtain;of a whispered word and a timidly averted glance. He pieced it alltogether and he quite suddenly recollected those same subtle memoriesin combination with others, of an earlier date. It all at once arousedhis jealousy, a husband's jealousy of the wife whom he loves as hismost personal possession. This jealousy burst upon him like a gustof wind, blowing its way through his concentration upon his work,confusing his thoughts as he sat writing, making him suddenly run outof his office, during the police-cases, and search Leonie's room andlift a curtain and even look under the bed.
And now he no longer consented to have Leonie staying at Patjaram,advancing as his pretext that the De Luces should not be encouragedin the hope of getting Doddie as a wife for Addie. For he dared notspeak to Leonie of his jealousy.... That Addie should ever get Doddiefor his wife!... True, there was native blood in his daughter too;but he wanted a full-blooded European as his son-in-law. He hatedanything half-caste. He hated the De Luces and all the up-country,Indian, half-Solo traditions of that Patjaram of theirs. He hatedtheir gambling, their hobnobbing with all sorts of Indian headmen,people whom he accepted officially, allowing them their rights,but, apart from this, regarded as unavoidable instruments of thegovernment policy. He hated all their posing as an old Indian familyand he hated Addie: an idle youth, who was supposed to be employedin the factory but did nothing at all, except run after every woman,girl and maid-servant in the place. He, the older, industrious man,was unable to understand that kind of existence.
So Leonie had to do without Patjaram; but in the mornings she wentquietly to Mrs. van Does and met Addie in this lady's little housewhile Mrs. van Does herself went out peddling, in a little cart,with two jam-pots filled with diamonds and a bundle of embroideredbedspreads. Then, in the evenings, Addie would stroll out with Doddieand listen to her passionate reproaches. He laughed at her tempersomedisplays, took her in his arms till she hung panting on his breast,kissed the reproaches from her mouth till she melted away amorously onhis lips. They went no further, feeling too much afraid, especiallyDoddie. They strolled behind the compounds, on the irrigation-dikesof the rice-fields, while swarms of fire-flies whirled about them inthe dark like tiny lanterns; they strolled arm-in-arm, they walkedhand-in-hand, in enervating, caressing love, which never dared topush matters any further. When she came home again, she was furious,raging at mamma, in whom she envied the calm, smiling satiety as shelay musing, in her white tea-gown, with a touch of powder on her face,in a cane chair.
And the house, newly painted and whitewashed after the strangehappenings, which were now past, the house was filled with a hatredthat rose on every hand, as it were the very demoniacal bloom ofthat strange secret; a hatred centering upon that silent woman, whowas too languid to hate and only delighted in silent tantalizing;a jealous hatred of the father for the son, when he saw him toooften sitting beside his step-mother, begging, in spite of his ownhatred, for something, the father did not know what; a hatred ofthe daughter for the mother; a hatred in which all this family-lifewas being wrecked. How it had all gradually come about Van Oudijckdid not know. He sadly regretted the time when he was blind, when hehad seen his wife and children only in the light in which he wishedto see them. That time was past. Like the strange happenings of notso long ago, a hatred was now rising out of life, like a miasma outof the ground. And Van Oudijck, who had never been superstitious,who had worked on coolly and calmly in his lonely house, with theincomprehensible witchcraft all about him; who had read reportswhile the hammering went on above his head and his whisky-and-sodachanged colour in his glass; Van Oudijck for the first time in hislife--now that he saw the gloomy glances of Theo and Doddie; nowthat he suddenly discovered his wife, growing more brazen daily,sitting hand-in-hand with young De Luce, her knees almost touchinghis--became superstitious, believing in a hidden force which lurkedhe knew not where, in India, in the soil of India, in a deep-seatedmystery, somewhere or other, a force that wished him ill because hewas a European, a ruler, a foreigner on the mystic, sacred soil. And,when he saw this superstition within himself, something so new to him,the practical man, something so strange and incredible to him, a manof single-minded, masculine simplicity, he was afraid of himself, as ofa rising insanity which he began to perceive deep down within himself.
And, strong though he had proved himself to be at the time ofthe strange happenings, which he had been able to exorcize with asingle word of threatening force, this superstition, which came asan aftermath of those events, found a weakness in him, a vulnerablespot as it were. He was so much surprised at himself that he did notunderstand and was afraid lest he might be going mad; and still heworried. His health was undermined by an incipient liver-complaint;and he kept on examining his jaundiced complexion. Suddenly hehad an idea that he was being poisoned. The kitchen was searched,the cook subjected to a cross-examination; but nothing came tolight. He realized that he had been frightened by nothing. But thedoctor declared that he had an enlarged liver and prescribed theusual diet. A thing which otherwise he would have thought quitenatural, a far from uncommon illness, now of a sudden struck him asstrange, a mysterious event; and he worried over it. And it got onhis nerves. He began to suffer from sudden weariness when working,from throbbing headaches. His jealousy upset him; he was overcome bya shuddering restlessness. He suddenly reflected that, if there werenow any hammering above his head, if betel-juice were now spat at him,he would not be able to stay in the house. And he began to believe ina hatred rising slowly all around him out of the hostile soil, like amiasma. He believed in a force deep-hidden in the things of India, inthe nature of Java, in the climate of Labuwangi, in the conjuring--ashe continued to call it--which sometimes makes the Javanese clevererthan the European and gives him the power, a mysterious power, not torelease himself from the yoke, but to cause illness, lingering illness,to plague and harass, to play the ghost most incredibly and hideously:a hidden force, a hidden power, hostile to our temperament, our blood,our bodies, our souls, our civilization, to all that seems to us theright thing to do and be and think. It had flashed before him as ina sudden light, it was not the result of thought, it had flashed outbefore him as in a dreadful revelation, which was utterly in conflictwith all the logic of his methodical life, his methodical mode ofthought. In a vision of terror, he suddenly saw it before him, asthe light of his approaching old age, as men who are growing old dosometimes suddenly perceive the truth. And yet he was young still andhale. And he felt that, if he did not divert his maddening thoughts,they might make him ill, weak and miserable, for ever and ever....
To him, above all, a simple, practical man, this change of mentalattitude was almost unbearable. What a morbid mind might havecontemplated in quiet meditation now flashed upon him as a suddenterror. Never would he have thought that there might be somewhere,deeply hidden in life, thing
s which were stronger than the power ofthe human will and intellect. Nowadays, after the nightmare which hehad so courageously defeated, it seemed to him that the nightmare hadsapped his strength nevertheless and inoculated him with every sortof weakness. It was incredible, but now, as he sat working late inthe day, he would listen to the evening voices in the garden, or tothe rat that rustled overhead. And then he would suddenly get up, goto Leonie's room and look under the bed. When he at last discoveredthat many of the anonymous letters by which he was persecuted camefrom the pen of a half-caste who described himself as his son and waseven known in the compound by his own surname, he felt too doubtful toinvestigate the matter, because of what might come to light that he hadhimself forgotten, dating from his controllership, from the old days,at Ngadjiwa. He was doubtful now of things of which he had once beencertain and positive. Nowadays he was no longer able so positivelyto order his recollections of that period as to swear that he hadnot a son, begotten almost unconsciously in those days. He did notclearly remember the housekeeper who had looked after him before hisfirst marriage. And he preferred to let the whole business of theanonymous letters smoulder in the dusky shadows, rather than stirit up and enquire into it. He even caused money to be sent to thenative who called himself his son, so that the fellow might not abusethe name which he arrogated to himself and demand presents all overthe compound: chickens and rice and clothes, things which Si-Oudijckexacted from ignorant villagers, whom he threatened with the vagueanger of his father the sahib, yonder at Labuwangi. In order that theremight be no more threats of this anger, Van Oudijck sent him money. Itwas weak of him: he would never have done it in the old days. But nowhe had an inclination to hush things up, to gloss over things, to beless stern and severe and rather to mitigate anything unduly strict byhalf-measures. Eldersma was sometimes amazed when he saw the resident,who used to be so firm, hesitating, when he saw him yielding in mattersof business, in differences with crown tenants, as he had never donebefore. And slack methods of work would gradually have found theirway automatically into the office, if Eldersma had not taken the workout of Van Oudijck's hands and given himself even more to do than healready had. It was generally stated that the resident was ill. And,in fact, his skin was yellow; his liver was painful; the least thingset his nerves quivering. It unsettled the house, in conjunctionwith Doddie's tempers and outbursts and Theo's jealousy and hatred,for Theo was at home again, had already thrown up Surabaya. Leoniealone continued her triumphant career, ever beautiful, white, calm,smiling, contented, happy in the lasting passion of Addie, whom sheknew how to hold, amorous expert, love's sorceress that she was. Fatehad warned her and she kept Theo at a distance; but for the rest shewas happy and contented.
Then suddenly Batavia fell vacant. The names of two or three residentswere mentioned, but Van Oudijck had possessed the best chance. Andhe worried about it, was afraid of it: he did not care for Bataviaas a residency. He would not have been able to work in Batavia as heworked here, at Labuwangi, zealously and devotedly fostering so manydifferent interests connected with agriculture and the people. Hewould rather have been appointed to Surabaya, where there was plentygoing on; or to one of the Vorstenlanden, where his tact in dealingwith the native princes would have been turned to good purpose. ButBatavia! It was the least interesting of all districts, from theofficial point of view, and, what with the arrogant atmosphere ofthe place, the least flattering to one in the position of resident,in close contact with the governor-general, surrounded by the highestofficials, so that the resident, who was almost supreme anywhere else,was at Batavia no more than yet another high official among so manymembers of council and directors. And it was much too near Buitenzorg,with its arbitrary secretariat, whose bureaucratic and red-tape methodswere always clashing with the practical administrative methods ofthe residents themselves.
The prospect of being appointed unsettled him entirely, harassed himmore than ever, with the thought of leaving Labuwangi in a month'stime, of selling up his furniture. It would break his heart to leaveLabuwangi. In spite of all that he had gone through there, he lovedthe town and especially his district. During all those years, hehad left traces of activity throughout his district, traces of hisdevoted labour, of his ambition, of his affection. And now, withina month, he would probably have to transfer all this to a successor,to tear himself away from everything that he had so lovingly cherishedand fostered. It filled him with a sombre melancholy. He cared nota straw for the fact that the promotion also brought him nearer tohis pension. That unoccupied future, with the boredom of approachingold age, was a very nightmare to him. And his successor would perhapsmake all manner of changes, would disagree at every single point.
In the end, the chance of his promotion became such a morbid obsessionwith him that the improbable thing happened and he wrote to thedirector of the B.B. and to the governor-general, begging to be leftat Labuwangi. The secret of these letters was pretty well kept:he himself concealed them entirely, both from his family and fromhis subordinates, so that, when a younger second-class resident wasappointed Resident of Batavia, people said that Van Oudijck had beenpassed over, but not that this had happened at his own request. And, inseeking the cause, they raked up all the old gossip about the dismissalof the Regent of Ngadjiwa and the strange happenings thereafter, butwithout finding in either any particular reason why the governmentshould have passed over Van Oudijck.
He himself recovered a strange sort of peace, a peace due toweariness, to laisser-aller, to becoming rooted in his familiarLabuwangi, to not having to be transferred, old up-country veteranthat he was, to Batavia, where things were so very different. When thegovernor-general, at his last audience, had spoken to him about goingto Europe on leave, he had felt afraid of Europe, afraid of no longerfeeling at home there; and now he felt afraid even of Batavia. Andyet he knew all that there was to know about the would-be westernhumbug of Batavia; yet he knew that the capital of Java only pretendedto be exceedingly European and in reality was only half-European. Inhimself--and unknown to his wife, who regretted that dispelled illusionof Batavia--he chuckled silently at the thought that he had succeededin remaining at Labuwangi. But, while he chuckled, he neverthelessfelt changed, aged, belittled, felt that he was no longer glancing atthat upward path--the prospect of constantly winning a higher placeamong his fellow-men--which had always been his path of life. Whathad become of his ambition? What had happened to decrease his loveof authority? He put it all down to the influence of the climate. Itwould certainly be a good thing to refresh his blood and his mind inEurope, to spend a couple of winters there. But the idea immediatelyevaporated, wiped out by his lack of resolution. No, he did not wantto go to Europe; it was India that he loved. And he indulged in longmeditations, lying in a long-chair, enjoying his coffee, his lightclothing, the gentle relaxation of his muscles, the aimless drowsinessof his thoughts. The only obvious thing in his drowsy mood was hisever-increasing suspicion; and now and again he would suddenly wakefrom his languor and listen to the vague sounds, the soft, suppressedlaughter which he seemed to hear in Leonie's room, even as at night,when, suspicious of ghosts, he listened to the muffled sounds in thegarden and to the rat scurrying overhead.
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