Reports arrived from Ternate and Halmaheira that a terrible submarine
earthquake had visited the surrounding group of islands, that whole
villages had been washed away, that thousands of inhabitants had
been rendered homeless. The telegrams caused greater consternation
in Holland than in India, where people seemed more used to the
convulsions of the sea, to the volcanic upheavals of the earth. They
had been discussing the Dreyfus case for months, they were beginning to
discuss the Transvaal, but Ternate was hardly mentioned. Nevertheless
a central committee was formed at Batavia; and Van Oudijck called a
meeting. It was resolved to hold a charity-bazaar, at the earliest
possible date, in the club and the garden attached to it. Mrs. van
Oudijck, as usual, delegated everything to Eva Eldersma and did not
trouble herself at all.
For a fortnight Labuwangi was filled with excitement. In this silent
little town, full of eastern slumber, a whirlwind of tiny passions,
jealousies and enmities began to rise. Eva had her club of faithful
adherents, the Van Helderens, the Doorn de Bruijns, the Rantzows, with
which all sorts of tiny sets strove to compete. One was not on speaking
terms with the other; this one would not take part because that one
did; another insisted on taking part only because Mrs. Eldersma
must not think that she was everybody; and this one and that one
and the other considered that Eva was much too pretentious and need
not fancy that she was the most important woman in the place because
Mrs. van Oudijck left everything to her. Eva however had spoken to
the resident and declared that she was willing to organize everything
provided she received unlimited authority. She had not the slightest
objection to his appointing some one else to set the ball rolling; but,
if he appointed her, unlimited authority was an express condition, for
to take twenty different tastes and opinions into account would mean
that one would never get anywhere. Van Oudijck laughingly consented,
but impressed upon her that she must not make people angry and that
she must respect every one's feelings and be as conciliatory as
possible, so that the charity-bazaar might leave pleasant memories
behind it. Eva promised: she was not naturally quarrelsome.
To get a thing done, to set a thing going, to put a thing through,
to employ her artistic energies was her great delight: it was life
to her, was the only consolation in her dreary life in India. For,
though she had grown to love and admire many things in Java, the
social life of the country, save for her little clique, lacked all
charm for her. But now to prepare an entertainment on a large scale,
the fame of which would reach as far as Surabaya, flattered alike
her vanity and her love of work.
She sailed through every difficulty; and, because people saw that she
knew best and was more practical than they, they gave way to her. But,
while she was busy evolving her stalls and her tableaux-vivants,
while the bustle of the preparations occupied the leading families
of Labuwangi, something seemed also to occupy the soul of the
native population, but something less cheerful than charitable
entertainment. The chief of police, who brought Van Oudijck his short
report every morning, usually in a few words--that he had gone his
rounds and that everything was quiet and orderly--had of late had
longer conversations with the resident, seemed to have more important
things to communicate; the messengers whispered more mysteriously
outside the office, the resident sent for Eldersma and Van Helderen;
the secretary wrote to Ngadjiwa, to Vermalen the assistant-resident, to
the major-commandant of the garrison; and the district controller went
round the town with increased frequency and at unaccustomed hours. Amid
all their fussing the ladies perceived little of these mysterious
doings; and only Léonie, who took no part in the preparations, noticed
in her husband an unusual silent concern. She was a quick and keen
observer; and, because Van Oudijck, who was accustomed often to mention
business in the domestic circle, had been mute for the last few days,
she asked suddenly where the Regent of Ngadjiwa was, now that he had
been dismissed by the government at Van Oudijck's instance, and who was
going to replace him. He made a vague reply; and she took alarm and
became anxious. 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 stopped to listen, with her ear against
the screen. The conversation was muffled because the garden-doors
were open; the messengers were sitting on the garden-steps; a couple
of gentlemen who wished to speak to the resident were walking up and
down the side-verandah, after writing their names on the slate which
the chief messenger brought in to the resident. But they had to wait,
because the resident was engaged with the chief of police....
Léonie listened from behind the screen. And she turned pale at the
sound of a word or two which she overheard. She returned silently to
her room, feeling anxious. At lunch she asked if it would be really
necessary for her to attend the fancy-fair, for she had had such a
toothache lately and wanted to go to Surabaya, to the dentist. It
would probably mean a few days: she had not been to the dentist for
ever so long. But Van Oudijck, sterner than usual, in his sombre mood
of secret concern and silence, told her that it was impossible, that on
an evening like that of the fancy-fair she was bound to be present as
the resident's wife. She pouted and sulked and held her handkerchief
to her mouth, so that Van Oudijck became distressed. That afternoon
she did not sleep, did not read, did not dream, as a result of this
unusual agitation. She was frightened, she wanted to get away. And
at tea, in the garden, she began to cry, said that the toothache was
making her head ache, that it was making her quite ill, that it was
more than she could bear. Van Oudijck, distressed and careworn, was
touched; he could never endure to see her tears. And he gave in, as he
always did to her, where her personal affairs were in question. Next
day she went off to Surabaya, staying at the resident's and really
having her teeth attended to.
It was always a good thing to do, once a year or so. This time
she spent about five hundred guilders on the dentist. After this,
incidentally, the other ladies also seemed to guess something
of what was happening at Labuwangi behind a haze of mystery. For
Ida van Helderen, the tragic white half-caste, her eyes starting
out of her head with fright, told Eva Eldersma that her husband
and Eldersma and the resident too were fearing a rebellion of the
population, incited by the regent and his family, who would never
forgive the dismissal of the Regent of Ngadjiwa. The men, however,
were non-committal and reassured their wives. But a dark swirling
tide continued to stir under the apparent calmness of their little
up-country life. And gradually the gossip leaked out and alarmed the
European inhabitants. Vague paragraphs in the newspapers, commenting
on the dismissal of the regent, contributed to their alarm.
Meanwhile the bustle of preparation for the fancy-fair went on,
but people no longer put their hearts into the work. They led a
fussy, restless life and were becoming ill and nervous. At night
they bolted and barred their houses, placed arms by their bed-sides,
woke suddenly in terror, listening to the noises of the night, which
sounded faintly in space outside. And they condemned the hastiness
shown by Van Oudijck, who, after the scene at the race-ball, had been
unable to restrain his patience any longer and had not hesitated to
recommend the dismissal of the regent, whose house was firmly rooted
in the soil of Labuwangi, was one with Labuwangi.
The resident had ordered, as a festival for the population, an evening
market on the square outside the regent's palace, to last for a few
days, coinciding with the bazaar. There would be a people's fair,
numbers of little stalls and booths and a Malay theatre, with plays
drawn from the Arabian Nights. He had done this in order to give
the Javanese inhabitants a treat which they would value greatly,
while the Europeans were enjoying themselves on their side. It was
now a few days before the fancy-fair, on the previous day to which,
as it chanced, the monthly council was to be held in the palace.
The anxiety, the fuss and a general nervousness filled the otherwise
quiet little town with an emotion which made people almost ill. Mothers
sent their children away and themselves were undecided what to do. But
the fancy-fair made people stay. How could they avoid going to the
fancy-fair? There was so seldom any amusement. But ... if there
really were a rising! And they did not know what to do, whether to
take the lowering menace, which they half-divined, seriously or make
a light-hearted jest of it.
The day before the council, Van Oudijck asked for an interview with the
raden-aju pangéran, who lived with her son. His carriage drove past
the huts and booths in the square and through the triumphal arches
of the market, formed of bamboo-stems bending towards each other,
with a narrow strip of bunting rippling in the wind, so much so that,
in Javanese, the decorations are known as "ripplings." This evening
was to be the first evening of the fair. Every one was busy with the
final preparations; and, in the bustle of hammering and arranging,
the natives sometimes neglected to cower at the passing of the
resident's carriage and paid no attention to the golden umbrella which
the messenger on the box held in his hands like a furled sun. But,
when the carriage turned by the flagstaff and up the drive leading to
the palace and they saw that the resident was going to the regent's,
groups huddled together and spoke in eager whispers. They crowded at
the entrance to the drive and stared. But the natives saw nothing save
the empty market-place looming beyond the shadow of the banyans, with
the rows of chairs in readiness. The chief of police, suddenly passing
on his bicycle, caused the groups to break up as though by instinct.
The old princess was awaiting the resident in the front-verandah. Her
dignified features wore a serene expression and betrayed no trace of
what was raging within her. She motioned the resident to a chair;
and the conversation opened with a few ordinary phrases. Then four
servants approached in a crouching posture: one with a bottle-stand;
the second with a tray full of glasses; the third with a silver
ice-pail full of broken ice; the fourth salaamed, without carrying
anything. The princess asked the resident what he would drink; and he
replied that he would like a whisky-and-soda. The fourth servant came
crouching through the other three to prepare the drink, poured in the
measure of whisky, opened the bottle of soda-water with a report as of
a gun and dropped into the tumbler a lump of ice the size of a small
glacier. Not another word was said. The resident waited for the drink
to grow cold; and the four servants crouched away. Then at last Van
Oudijck spoke and asked if he might speak to her in entire confidence,
if he could say what he had in his mind. She begged him, civilly,
to do so. And in his firm but hushed voice he told her, in Malay, in
very courteous sentences, full of friendliness and flowery politeness,
how great and exalted his love had been for the pangéran and still
was for that prince's glorious house, although he, Van Oudijck, to
his intense regret, had been obliged to act counter to that love,
because his duty commanded him so to act. And he asked her--presuming
that it was possible for her, as a mother--to bear him no grudge for
this exercise of his duty; he asked her, on the contrary, to show a
motherly feeling for him, the European official, who had loved the
pangéran as a father, and to cooperate with him, the official--she,
the mother of the regent--by employing her great influence for the
happiness and welfare of the population. Sunario had a tendency,
in his piety and his remote gaze at things invisible, to forget the
actual realities that lay before his eyes. Well, he, the resident,
was asking her, the powerful, influential mother, to cooperate with
him in ways which Sunario overlooked, to cooperate with him in love
and unity. And, in his elegant Malay, he opened his heart to her
entirely, describing the turmoil which for days and days had been
seething among the inhabitants, like an evil poison which could not
do other than make them wicked and drunk and would probably lead to
things, to acts, which were bound to have lamentable results. He made
her feel his unspoken view that the government would be the stronger,
that a terrible punishment would overtake all who should prove guilty,
high and low alike. But his language remained exceedingly cautious
and his speech respectful, as of a son addressing a mother. She,
though she understood him, valued the tactful grace of his manner;
and the flowery depth and earnestness of his language made him
rise in her esteem and almost surprised her ... in a low Hollander,
without birth or breeding. But he continued. He did not tell her what
he knew, that she was the instigatress of this obscure unrest; but he
excused that unrest, said that he understood it, that the population
shared her grief in respect of her unworthy son, himself a scion of
the noble race, and that it was only natural that the people should
sympathize deeply with their old soveran, even though the sympathy
was ignorant and illogical. For the son was unworthy, the Regent of
Ngadjiwa had proved himself unworthy and what had happened could not
have happened otherwise.
His voice, for a moment, became severe; and she bowed her grey head,
remained silent, seemed to agree. But his words now became gentler
again; and once more he asked for her cooperation, asked her to use
her influence for the best. He trusted her entirely. He knew that
she held high the traditions of her family, loyalty to the Company,
unimpeachable loyalty to the government. Well, he asked her to direct
her power and influence, to use the love and reverence which the
people bore her in such a way that she, in concert with him, would
allay what was seething in the darkness; that she would move the
thoughtless to reflection; that she would assuage and pacify what was
secretly threatening, thoughtlessly and frivolously, against the firm
and dignified authority of the government. And, while he flattered and
threatened her in one breath, he felt that she--although she hardly
spoke a single word and merely punctuated his words with her repeated
saja--he felt that she was falling under his stronger influence, the
influence of the man of tact and authority, and that he was giving
her food for reflection. He felt that, as she reflected, her hatred
was subsiding, her vindictiveness losing its force and that he was
breaking the energy and pride of the ancient blood of the Maduran
sultans. Under all the flowers of his speech, he allowed her to catch
a glimpse of utter ruin, of terrible penalties, of the undeniably
greater power of the government. And he bent her to the old pliant
attitude of yielding before the might of the ruler. He reminded her,
in her impulse to rebel and throw off the hated yoke, that it was
better to be calm and reasonable and to adapt herself placidly to
things as they were. She nodded her head softly in assent; and he felt
that he had conquered her. And this aroused a certain pride within him.
And now she also spoke and gave the required promise, saying, in her
broken, inwardly weeping voice, that she loved him as a son, that she
would do what he wished and would assuredly use her influence, outside
the palace, in the town, to still these threatening troubles. She
denied her own complicity and said that the unrest arose from the
unreflecting love of the people, who suffered with her, because
of her son. She now echoed his own words, save that she did not
speak of unworthiness. For she was a mother. And she repeated once
again that he could trust her, that she would act according to his
wish. Then he informed her that he would come to the council next
day, with his subordinates and with the native head-men; and he said
that he trusted her so completely that all of them, the Europeans,
would be unarmed. He looked her in the eyes. He threatened her more
by saying this than if he had spoken of arms. For he was threatening
her--without a threatening word, merely by the intonation of his Malay
speech--with the punishment, with the vengeance of the government,
if a hair was injured of the least of its officials.
He had risen from his seat. She also rose, wrung her hands, entreated
him not to speak like that, entreated him to have the fullest
confidence in her and in her son. She sent for Sunario. The Regent
of Labuwangi entered; and Van Oudijck again repeated that he hoped
for peace and reason. And he felt, by the tone of the old princess
in speaking to her son, that she wished for peace and reason. He felt
that she, the mother, was omnipotent in the palace.
The regent bowed his head, agreed, promised, even said that he had
already taken pacifying measures, that he had always regretted this
excitement of the populace, that it grieved him greatly, now that
the resident had noticed it, in spite of his, Sunario's, attempts at
pacification. The resident did not go further into this insincerity. He
knew that the discontent was fanned from the Kabupaten, but he knew
also that he had won. Once more, however, he impressed upon the
regent his responsibility, if anything happened in the market-place,
next day, during the council. The regent entreated him not to think
of such a thing. And now, to part on friendly terms, he begged Van
Oudijck to sit down again. Van Oudijck resumed his seat. In so doing,
he knocked as though by accident against the tumbler, all frosted
with the chill of the ice, which he had not yet put to his lips. It
fell clattering to the ground. He apologized for his clumsiness. The
raden-aju pangéran had remarked his movement and her old face turned
pale. She said nothing, but beckoned to an attendant. And the four
servants appeared again, crouching along the floor, and mixed a second
whisky-and-soda. Van Oudijck at once lifted the glass to his lips.
There was a painful silence. To what degree the resident's movement in
upsetting the glass was justified would always remain a problem. He
would never know. But he wished to show the princess that, when
coming here, he was prepared for anything, before their conversation,
and that, after this conversation, he meant to trust her utterly and
completely, not only in respect of the drink which she offered him,
but next day, at the council, where he and his officials would appear
unarmed, and in respect of her influence for good, which would bring
peace and tranquillity to the people. And, as though to show him that
she understood him and that his confidence would be wholly justified,
she rose and whispered a few words to an attendant whom she had
beckoned to her. The Javanese disappeared and soon returned, crouching
all the way through the front-verandah and carrying a long object in a
yellow case. The princess took it from him and handed it to Sunario,
who took a walking-stick from the yellow silk case and offered it to
the resident as a token of their fraternal friendship. Van Oudijck
accepted it, understanding the symbol. For the yellow silk case was
of the colour and the material of authority, yellow or gold and silk;
the stick was of a wood that serves as a protection against snake-bites
and ill-luck; and the heavy knob was wrought of the metal of authority,
gold, in the form of the ancient sultan's crown. This stick, offered
at such a moment, signified that the Adiningrats submitted anew and
that Van Oudijck could trust them.
And, when he took his leave, he felt very proud and esteemed himself
highly. For by exercising tact, diplomacy and knowledge of the Javanese
he had won; he would have allayed the rebellion merely by words. That
would be a fact.
That was so, that would be so: a fact. On that first evening of the
public fair, lighted gaily with a hundred paraffin-lamps, scented
alluringly with the trailing odours of cooking food, full of the motley
whirl of the holiday-making populace, that first evening was wholly
given up to rejoicing; and the people discussed with one another the
long and friendly visit which the resident had paid to the regent and
his mother; for they had seen the carriage with the umbrella waiting
a long time in the drive and the regent's attendants had told of the
present of the walking-stick.
That was so: the fact existed and had happened as Van Oudijck had
planned it in advance and compelled it to happen. And that he should
be proud of this was human. But what he had not compelled or planned
in advance was the hidden forces, which he never divined, whose
existence he would deny, always, in his simple, natural life. What
he did not see and hear and feel was the very hidden force, which
had indeed subsided, but was yet smouldering, like a volcanic fire,
under the apparently peaceful meadows of flowers and amity and peace;
the hatred which would possess a power of impenetrable mystery,
against which he, the European, was unarmed.