The Hidden Force (19 page)

For him especially, as a simple practical man, this sudden reversal was almost unbearable. What someone with a morbid cast of mind would have contemplated calmly, left him thunderstruck. He had never thought that there might be things in life somewhere deep down, mysterious, stronger than will-power, intellectual power. Now—after the
night-mare
, which he had bravely overcome—it appeared that the nightmare had exhausted him after all and infected him with all kinds of weakness. It was unbelievable, but now, in the evenings when he was working, he listened to night falling in the garden, or the rat stumbling around above his head. And then he would suddenly get up, go into Léonie’s room and look under her bed. When he finally discovered that many
of the anonymous letters by which he was pursued were the work of a half-blood claiming to be his son, and even known in the compound by Van Oudijck’s own surname, he felt too hesitant to investigate the matter, because of what might come to light that he had forgotten, from his time as a controller long ago in Ngajiwa. Now he wavered, where in the past he had been resolute. Now he was no longer able to order his memories with such certainty that he could swear he had no son, sired at that time almost without knowing it. He did not have a clear memory of the housekeeper he’d had before his first marriage. He preferred to let the whole business of the anonymous letters go on smouldering in their dark recess, rather than investigate and stir things up. He even had money sent to the half-caste who claimed to be his son, so that he would not abuse the name that he had appropriated, by asking for gifts of chicken, rice and clothes all over the compound. These were things that si-Oudijck asked of ignorant village folk, whom he threatened with the vague displeasure of his father, the master over in Labuwangi. So to avoid the villagers being threatened any longer with his wrath, Van Oudijck sent him money. That was a sign of weakness, and in the past he would never have done it, but now he developed a tendency to pour oil in troubled waters, to make excuses, no longer to be so unbending and severe, and to blur and tone down everything that was black and white. Eldersma was sometimes amazed when he now saw the Commissioner—who had once been so resolute—in two minds, saw him giving way in administrative matters, disputes
with tenants, in a way he never would have done in the past. A laxness in the operation of the office would have crept in, had not Eldersma taken the work off Van Oudijck’s hands, and made himself even busier than he already was. It was widely rumoured that the District Commissioner was a sick man. And it was true that his complexion was jaundiced, and his liver painful; the slightest thing set off his
palpitations
. The atmosphere in the household was neurotic, with Doddy’s tantrums and outbursts, the jealousy and hatred of Theo, who was back home after having abandoned Surabaya. Only Léonie remained triumphant, always beautiful, white, calm, smiling, content, exulting in the enduring passion of Addy, whom she was able to enchant as a sorceress of love, a mistress of passion. Fate had warned her, and she kept Theo at arm’s length, but apart from that she was happy, content.

Then there was suddenly a vacancy in Batavia. The names of two or three commissioners were mentioned, but Van Oudijck had the best chance. He fretted about it, he was apprehensive: he didn’t like Batavia as a district. He would not be able to work there as he had worked here, devoting himself assiduously to promoting so many different interests, both cultural and social. He would have preferred an
appointment
in Surabaya, where there was a lot happening, or in one of the Principalities, where his tact in dealing with the Javanese nobility would have stood him in good stead. But Batavia! For a commissioner, the least interesting district as an official: for the position of district commissioner the least flattering aspect was the arrogance of the place, close
to the governor general, right in the midst of the most senior officials, so that the commissioner, virtually all-powerful elsewhere, was no more than another senior official among members of the Council of the Indies, and too close to Buitenzorg, with its conceited secretariat, whose bureaucracy and red tape were in conflict with administrative practice and the actual work of the commissioners themselves.

The possibility of his appointment threw him into
complete
confusion, and made him jumpier than ever, now that he would have to leave Labuwangi at a month’s notice, and sell his household effects. It would be a real wrench to leave Labuwangi. Despite what he had suffered there, he loved the town and especially his district. Throughout his territory in all those years he had left traces of his industry, his concentration, his ambition, his love. Now, in less than a month, he might have to hand it all over to a successor, tear himself away from everything he had lovingly provided and promoted. And the successor might change everything, and totally disagree with him. It provoked a melancholy gloom in him. The fact that a promotion would also take him closer to retirement, meant nothing to him. That future of idleness and boredom as old age approached was a nightmare to him.

Then his possible promotion suddenly became such a pathological obsession that the improbable happened and he wrote to the Director of the Colonial Service and the Governor General requesting that he be left at Labuwangi. Little of these letters leaked out; he himself said nothing about them either in the family circle or among his officials,
so that when a younger commissioner, second class was appointed as commissioner of Batavia, people talked about Van Oudijck having been passed over, without knowing that it had been at his own instigation. Searching for a reason, people raked up the dismissal of the Prince of Ngajiwa, and the ensuing strange happenings, but it was felt that neither was really reason enough for the government to pass over Van Oudijck.

He himself regained in the process a strange kind of calm, the calm of weariness, of letting himself go, of being stuck in his familiar Labuwangi, of going native in his provincial post, of not having to go to Batavia, where things were so completely different. When at his last audience the Governor General had mentioned a European leave, he had felt a fear of Europe—a fear of no longer feeling at home there—now he felt the same fear even of Batavia. Yet he was only too familiar with all the quasi-Western humbug of the place; he knew the capital of Java put on very European airs, and in reality was only half-European. In himself—unbeknown to his wife, who regretted the shattered illusion of Batavia—he was secretly amused that he had been able to ensure that he stayed in Labuwangi. But that amusement showed him that he was changed, aged, diminished, eyes no longer fixed on the path upward, assuming a higher and higher position in human society, which had always been the path of his life. What had happened to his ambition? How had his
domineering
drive slackened? He attributed everything to the effect of the climate. It would certainly be good if he could refresh
his blood and his mind in Europe. But instantly that thought dissolved for want of will. No, he didn’t want to go to Europe. He was fond of the Indies. He gave himself over to long reflections, lying in an easy chair, enjoying his coffee, his airy clothes, the gentle weakening of his muscles, the aimless drowsy flow of his thoughts. The only sharp-edged element of that drowsy flow was his ever-increasing suspicion, and he would suddenly wake from his torpor and listen to the vague sound, the faint suppressed laughter that he imagined he heard from Léonie’s room, just as at night, suspicious of ghosts, he listened to the muffled sounds of the garden and the rat above his head.

A
DDY WAS SITTING
with Mrs Van Does on the small back veranda of her house when they heard a carriage rattle to a halt outside. They looked at each other with a smile, and got up.

“I’ll leave you alone,” said Mrs Van Does, and she
disappeared
to ride around town in a
dos-à-dos
carriage doing business with friends.

Léonie entered.

“Where’s Mrs Van Does?” she asked, acting each time as if it were the first: that was her great attraction.

He knew this and replied: “She’s just popped out for a moment. She’ll be sorry not to have seen you…”

He spoke in this way because he knew that she liked it: each time the ceremonial beginning in order to maintain the freshness of their liaison.

They sat down on a divan in the small enclosed central gallery, he next to her.

The divan had been covered with a piece of brightly
patterned
cretonne; the white walls were covered with some cheap fans and Japanese scroll paintings, and on either side of a small mirror there were two imitation bronze statues
on pedestals: unspecified knights, one leg forward, a spear in hand. Through the glass door the grubby rear veranda was dimly visible, the pillars greenish yellow and damp, the flowerpots also greenish yellow, with a few withered rose bushes; the damp garden beyond was overgrown, with a pair of scrawny coconut palms, their leaves drooping like snapped feathers.

He drew her into his arms, but she pushed him back gently.

“Doddy is insufferable,” she said. “We must put an end to it.”

“How do we do that?”

“She must leave home. She’s so irritable, I can’t do a thing with her.”

“You tease her, too.”

She shrugged her shoulders, out of humour after a tiff with her stepdaughter.

“I used not to tease her, she used to love me, we used to get on very well. Now she explodes at the least thing. It’s your fault. Those eternal evening walks that lead nowhere are playing on her nerves.”

“It’s better they don’t lead anywhere,” he murmured, with his seducer’s smile. “But still I can’t break it off, because that would hurt her, and I can never hurt a woman.”

She laughed disparagingly.

“Yes, you’re so kind-hearted. You’d spread your favours far and wide out of the goodness of your heart. But whatever happens, she’s leaving home.”

“Where will she go?”

“Don’t ask such stupid questions!” she cried angrily, jerked out of her usual indifference. “Away, away, she’s going away: I couldn’t care less where. You know that once I say something, it happens. And this, this will happen.”

He took her in his arms.

“You’re so angry. You’re not beautiful at all like that…”

Upset, she didn’t want to let herself be kissed at first, but he didn’t like such upsets and was well aware of the power of his irresistible, handsome, Moorish masculinity, and overpowered her with brute force, smiling all the while and hugging her so tightly that she couldn’t move.

“You mustn’t be angry any more…”

“Oh yes I must… I hate Doddy.”

“The poor child has done you no harm.”

“That’s as may be…”

“You, on the other hand, tease her.”

“Because I hate her…”

“But why? Surely you’re not jealous?…”

She laughed loudly.

“No! That’s not in my nature.”

“Why then?”

“What’s it to you? I don’t know myself. I hate her. I enjoy teasing her.”

“Are you as bad as you’re beautiful?”

“What’s bad? How should I know! I’d like to tease you too, if only I knew how.”

“And I’d like to give you a good hiding.”

Again she laughed aloud.

“Perhaps that might do me good now,” she admitted. “I’m seldom upset, but Doddy!…”

She tensed her fingers and, suddenly calmer, she snuggled up to him and put her arms round his body.

“I used to be very indifferent,” she confessed. “Recently I’ve become much more nervous, since I had such a fright in that bathroom, after they spat betel juice all over me. Do you think it was ghosts, spirits at work? I don’t think so. It was the Prince taunting us. Those wretched Javanese know all sorts of things… But since that time I’ve been thrown off course. Do you understand that expression?… It used to be wonderful: everything ran off me like water off a duck’s back. Since I was so ill, I seem to have changed, become more nervous. Theo, when he was angry with me once, said that since then I’ve been hysterical… which I used not to be. I don’t know: perhaps he’s right. But I’ve certainly changed… I care less about people; I think I’m becoming very brazen… The gossip is also more spiteful than it used to be… Van Oudijck annoys me, snooping around like that… He’s starting to notice things… And Doddy, Doddy!… I’m not jealous, but I can’t stand those evening strolls she has with you… You mustn’t do it any more, go for walks with her… I won’t stand for it any more, I won’t… Everything bores me here in Labuwangi… What a miserable, monotonous existence… Surabaya bores me too… So does Batavia… Everything here is so dull: people never think up anything new. I’d like to go to Paris… I think I’m made of the right stuff to enjoy myself there.”

“Do I bore you, too?”

“You?”

She stroked his face with her hands, his chest, down to his legs.

“Shall I tell you something? You’re a handsome lad, but you’re too good-natured, which irritates me, too. You kiss anyone who wants to be kissed by you. At Pajaram you slobber over your old mother, your sisters, everyone. I think that’s terrible of you!”

He laughed.

“You’re getting jealous!” he exclaimed.

“Jealous? Am I really getting jealous? It’s terrible if I am. I don’t know… I don’t want to. I still believe that there’s something that will always protect me.”

“A devil…”

“Perhaps.
Un bon diable
.”

“Are you starting to speak French?”

“Yes. With my departure to Paris in view… Something that protects me. I firmly believe that life has no hold on me, that I am invulnerable, to anything.”

“You’re getting superstitious.”

“Oh, I already was. Perhaps I’ve become worse. Tell me, have I changed recently?”

“You’re more nervous…”

“Not so indifferent any more?”

“You’re more cheerful, more amusing.”

“Was I boring before?”

“You were quiet. You were always beautiful, wonderful, divine… but rather quiet.”

“Perhaps I cared more about people then.”

“Don’t you care any more?”

“No, not any more. They gossip anyway… But tell me, haven’t I changed in more ways?

“Oh yes… more jealous, more superstitious, more nervous… What more do you want?…”

“Physically… haven’t I changed physically?…”

“No.”

“Haven’t I aged… Aren’t I getting wrinkles?”

“You? Never.”

“Do you know… I think I’ve got a whole future ahead of me… Something completely different…”

“In Paris?”

“Perhaps… Tell me, aren’t I too old?”

“For what?”

“For Paris… How old do you think I am?

“Twenty-five.”

“You’re fibbing: you know perfectly well that I’m
thirty-two
… Do I look thirty-two?”

“No, no…”

“Tell me, don’t you think the Indies is a rotten country… You’ve never been to Europe, have you?”

“No…”

“I only between the ages of ten and fifteen… Actually you’re a brown colonial and I’m white colonial…”

“I love my country.”

“Yes, because you think you’re some kind of Solo prince. That’s your absurd delusion in Pajaram… I, I hate the
Indies… I spit on Labuwangi. I want to get out. I have to go to Paris. Will you come with me?”

“I’d never want to…”

“Not even if you consider that there are hundreds of women in Europe that you’ve never had?…”

He looked at her: something in her words, in her voice made him look up, a deranged, hysterical note, that had never struck him in the past, when she had always been the silently passionate lover, eyes half-closed, who immediately afterwards wanted to forget and become propriety itself. Something in her repelled him: he liked the supple, soft yielding of her embrace, with something indolent and smiling—as she used to be—not these half-crazed eyes and purple mouth, ready to bite. It was as if she could feel it, because she suddenly pushed him away, and said brusquely: “You bore me… I know you inside out. Go away…”

But he didn’t want to; he didn’t like a rendezvous that led nowhere, and he embraced her and asked…

“No,” she said abruptly. “You bore me. Everyone bores me here. Everything bores me…”

On his knees, he grasped her waist and pulled her towards him. She, laughing slightly, gave way a little, running her hand nervously through his hair. A carriage pulled up outside.

“Listen,” she said.

“It’s Mrs Van Does…”

“She’s back very early…”

“I don’t suppose she’s sold anything.”

“Then it’ll cost you ten guilders…”

“I expect so…”

“Do you pay her a lot? For our rendezvous?”

“Oh, what does it matter?…”

“Listen,” he said again, more attentively.

“That’s not Mrs Van Does…”

“No…”

“It’s a man’s footstep…”

“It wasn’t a
dos-à-dos
either: it rattled far too much.”

“It’s probably nothing…” she said. “Someone who’s got the wrong address. No one will come in here.”

“The man is coming round the back,” she said, listening.

They both listened for a moment. Then suddenly, with two or three steps through the narrow garden and on to the small back veranda,
his
, Van Oudijck’s figure loomed at the closed glass door, visible through the curtain. He had wrenched the door open before Léonie and Addy could change position, so that Van Oudijck saw the two of them: her, sitting on the divan, him kneeling in front of her with her hand, as if forgotten, still resting on his hair.

“Léonie!” thundered her husband.

The blood coursed and seethed through her veins with the shock of surprise, and in a single moment she saw a whole future: his fury, a divorce, a court case, the money that he would give her, everything jumbled together. But, as if through the force of will-power, the rush of blood immediately subsided and evened out, and she sat calmly, with terror visible in her eyes for only a further moment, until she could direct her steely gaze at Van Oudijck. And
pressing Addy’s head with her fingers she signalled to him to stay as he was, kneeling at her feet, and as if in a state of self-hypnosis, listening in astonishment at the sound of her own, slightly hoarse voice:

“Otto… Adrien de Luce is asking me to put in a good word with you… for him… He is asking… for Doddy’s hand…”

She was still the only one speaking. She continued: “He knows that you have some objections. He knows that you are not very fond of his family, because they have Javanese blood… in their veins.”

She spoke as if some other voice were speaking inside her, and she had to smile at the phrase “in their veins”. She did not know why; perhaps it was because it was the first time in her life that she had used it in conversation.

“But,” she went on, “there are no financial objections, if Doddy wants to live at Pajaram… And the young things have known each other… for so long. They were afraid of you…”

Still no one else spoke.

“Doddy’s nerves have been bad for so long, she’s been almost ill. It would be a crime not to give your consent, Otto…”

Gradually her voice became melodious, and the smile appeared around her lips, but her eyes were still steely, as if she were threatening some mysterious wrath if Van Oudijck did not believe her.

“Come…” she said very softly, very sweetly, tapping Addy gently on the head with her still trembling fingers. “Get up… Addy… and… go… to… Papa…”

He got up mechanically.

“Léonie,” said Van Oudijck, hoarsely. “Why were you here?”

She looked up in complete astonishment and gentle sincerity.

“Here? I came to see Mrs Van Does…”

“And him?” said Van Oudijck pointing.

“Him?… He came to see her too… Mrs Van Does had to go out… Then he asked to speak to me… and then he asked me… for Doddy’s hand…”

All three of them were again silent.

“And you, Otto?” she asked, more harshly this time. “What brings you here?”

He looked at her sharply.

“Do you want to buy something from Mrs Van Does?”

“Theo said you were here…”

“Theo was right…”

“Léonie…”

She got up, and with her steely eyes indicated to him that he had to believe, that
all
she wanted was for him to believe.

“Anyway, Otto,” she said, once more gentle, calm and sweet, “don’t keep Addy waiting for an answer any longer. And you, Addy, don’t be afraid, and ask for Doddy’s hand from Papa… I have… nothing to say about Doddy: I’ve already said it.”

They now stood facing each other in the cramped central gallery, stuffy with their breath and bottled-up feelings.

“Commissioner,” said Addy at that point, “I wish to ask you… for your daughter’s hand…”

A
dos-à-dos
drew up outside.

“That’s Mrs Van Does,” said Léonie hurriedly. “Otto, say something, before she comes…”

“Very well,” said Van Oudijck gloomily.

Before Mrs Van Does came in, he made his escape round the back, not seeing Addy’s proffered hand. Mrs Van Does came in, shivering, followed by a maid carrying a bundle: her merchandise. She saw Léonie and Addy standing there, stiff, as if in a trance.

“That was the Commissioner’s carriage…” stammered the Indies lady. “Was that the Commissioner?”

“Yes,” said Léonie.

“Good Lord!… And what happened?”

“Nothing,” continued Léonie, laughing.

“Nothing?”

“There was something…”

“What then?”

“Addy and Doddy are…”

“Are what?”

“Engaged!”

She burst out laughing with a shrill laugh of irrepressible
joie de vivre
, whirling the flabbergasted Mrs Van Does round, and kicking the bundle out of the maid’s hands, so that a pack of batik-dyed bedspreads and table runners tipped onto the floor and a small jar, full of glistening crystals, rolled out and broke.