The Hidden Force

by Louis Couperus

  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 h
appened 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.