T
HAT NIGHT
was like a downy cloud of velvet,
descending
languidly from the sky. The moon in its first quarter appeared as a small crescent, like a Turkish half moon, from the tips of which the unlit side of the disc was vaguely visible in outline against the sky… A long avenue of cemara trees led away from the front of the house, with straight trunks and foliage like unravelled plush and frayed velvet standing out like tufts of cotton wool against the low clouds, which heralded the approaching monsoon a month in advance. Wood pigeons cooed intermittently and a tokay gecko called, first with two rattling preliminary notes, as if in preparation, and then with his call, repeated four or five times:
“Tokay, tokay!…” at first powerful, then dipping and weakening…
The nightwatchman out front on the main road, where the sleeping market lay with its now empty stalls, struck eleven strokes on his hollow block of wood, and when a belated cart came by he shouted in a hoarse voice, “Who goes there?”
The night was a canopy of soft velvet, descending languidly from the sky, like an abundant mystery, a frightening future threat. But in that mystery, beneath the plucked black tufts
of cotton wool, the frayed plush of the cemaras was like an inescapable summons to love in the windless night, like a whispered exhortation not to let this moment pass… True, the tokay kept pestering with its drily comic call, and the nightwatchman startled everyone with his “Who goes there?”, but the wood pigeons cooed softly and the whole night was like an eiderdown, like one great alcove curtained by the plush of the cemaras, while the sultriness of the distant rain clouds—which had been on the horizon all month—swirled around with an oppressive magic. Mystery and enchantment floated through the downy night, descending into the alcove where twilight was falling, melting away all thought and spirit, and presenting warm visions to the senses…
The tokay was silent, the night attendant nodded off: the velvety night reigned over all, like an enchantress crowned with the crescent moon. They approached slowly, two youthful figures, arms around each other’s waists, mouth seeking mouth with rapturous compulsion. Their forms were shadowy under the unravelled velvet of the cemaras, and in their white clothes they emerged as the eternal pair of lovers, always the same, everywhere. Here
especially
, the pair of lovers was inevitable in the magical night, seemed to be one with the night, summoned by the ruling enchantress; here it was predestined, blossoming as a double flower of fateful love, in the muffled mystery of the compelling skies.
And the Seducer seemed like the son of that inexorable queen of the night, who swept the weak girl along. To her
ears the night seemed to be singing with his voice; her little soul melted, full of its own weakness amid the magical powers. She walked touching his side, feeling the warmth of his body penetrating her yearning maidenhood; her liquid gaze enveloped him with the longings of her sparkling irises, diamond-like against her black pupils. He, drunk with the power of the night—the enchantress that resembled his mother—was at first determined to take her further. Losing sight of all reality, losing all respect for her, unafraid of anyone, he was determined to take her further, past the night watchman who was nodding off, across the main road into the native quarter that was hidden away among the stately plumes of the coconut palms, a canopy for their love—to take her to a hideaway, a house he knew, a bamboo hut, which they would open up for him.
Suddenly she stopped, gripped his arm and pressed even closer to him and begged him not to. She was afraid…
“Why?” he asked softly, with his silky-smooth voice, as deep and downlike as the night. Why not tonight, tonight at last, there would be no danger…
But she trembled, shuddered and begged: “Addy, Addy, no… no… I don’t dare go any further… I’m frightened the attendant will see us, and look… there he is… a
haji
in a white turban…”
He looked towards the road. On the other side awaited the village under the canopy of coconut palms, with the bamboo hut that they would open up…
“A pilgrim?… Where, Doddy? I can’t see anyone…”
“He was walking down the road, he looked round, he saw us, I saw his eyes glittering and he went behind those trees into the village…”
“Darling, I didn’t see anything…”
“He was there, he was there. I don’t dare, Addy. Please, let’s go back!”
His handsome Moorish face clouded: he could already see the hut being opened by the old woman, whom he knew and who adored him as all women adored him, from his mother to his little nieces.
And once again he tried to persuade her, but she refused, and stopped and would not move an inch. Then they went back, and the clouds were even sultrier, low on the horizon, and the soft, blanketing night was as dense as snow, only warm; the ragged outlines of the cemaras were blacker and fuller. The dim shape of the mansion appeared, unlit, deeply asleep. And he begged her, he implored her not to leave him that night, that he would die that night without her… She was on the point of giving in, and promising, with her arms round his neck… when she started again and again cried out: “Addy… Addy… there, again… that white figure!…”
“You seem to be seeing pilgrims everywhere!” he said sarcastically.
“Well, look then…”
He looked, and really did see a white figure approaching along the front veranda. But it was a woman.
“Mama!” cried Doddy in alarm.
It was indeed Léonie, and she came slowly towards them.
“Doddy,” she said softly. “I’ve been looking for you
everywhere
. I was so frightened. I didn’t know where you were. Why do you go for walks so late at night? Addy…” she continued, with motherly affection, as if speaking to two children. “How can you be so silly, out walking with Doddy so late. You really mustn’t do it again! I know it’s nothing, but what if someone saw you! Will you promise me never to do it again?”
She entreated them sweetly, in engagingly reproachful tones; implying that she understood very well that they were burning with love for each other in the magical, velvety night, and by her tone of voice immediately forgiving them. She looked like an angel, with her round, white face set amid the loose wavy hair, in the white silk kimono that hung around her in supple folds. And she pulled Doddy towards her, and kissed the child, and wiped her tears away. Then, gently, she pushed Doddy away, to her room in the outbuildings, where she slept safely among so many rooms full of daughters and grandchildren of the old Mrs De Luce. And as Doddy left for the loneliness of that room, weeping softly, Léonie went on talking to Addy, gently reproaching him, then again warning him sweetly like a sister, while he, a handsome brown Moor, stood there before her shyly, putting a brave face on it. They were in the dim light of the front veranda; the night air perfumed the irresistible clouds of sensuality, of love, of muffled mystery. She reproached and warned and said that Doddy was a child, and he must not take advantage of her… He shrugged his shoulders, defended himself, putting a brave
face on it; his words struck her like gold dust, his eyes sparkled like a tiger’s. Persuading him to spare poor Doddy in future, she took his hand—his hand that she adored—his fingers, his palm, which this morning, in her confusion, she could have kissed—and she squeezed that hand and was almost in tears, and begged him to spare Doddy… He suddenly realized, and flashed his wild-animal look at her and saw her beauty and her female attraction, milky-white, and he knew she was a priestess with secret knowledge… And he also spoke of Doddy, coming closer to her, feeling her touch, pressing her two hands between his, making her understand that he understood. And still pretending to weep and implore, she led him away and opened the door to her room. He saw a faint light and her maid, Urip, who went out through the front door and settled down to sleep outside on a mat like a faithful animal. Then she laughed in greeting, and he, the Seducer, was amazed at the warmth of the smile of this white blond seductress, who threw off her silk kimono and stood before him like a statue, naked, arms open wide…
Urip, outside, listened for a moment. And she was about to settle down to sleep, dreaming of the lovely sarongs that her mistress would give her tomorrow, when she suddenly started and saw a
haji
with a white turban walk across the compound and disappear into the night.
T
HAT DAY
the Prince of Ngajiwa, the younger brother of Sunario, was to pay a visit to Pajaram, since Mrs Van Oudijck was leaving the following day. Everyone was waiting for him on the front veranda, rocking around the marble table, when his carriage rattled into the long avenue of cemaras. They all stood up. And now, especially, it was apparent how highly regarded the old dowager was, how closely related she was to the Susuhunan himself, since the Prince got out and, without taking one step further, squatted by the first step to the front veranda and respectfully made the sign of the
semba
, bringing his hands with fingertips touching up to his head, while behind his back a retainer, holding up the closed gold-and-white sunshade like a furled sun, made himself still smaller and shrank to nothing. The old woman, the Solo princess, who saw the palace glittering before her eyes once again, approached him, bade the Prince welcome in the courteous tones of palace Javanese—the language used between royal equals—until the Prince rose up, and the family approached behind the old woman. The way in which he then politely greeted the Commissioner’s wife was almost condescending compared with his servility
of a moment ago… He then sat down between Mrs De Luce and Mrs Van Oudijck, and a leisurely conversation ensued. The Prince of Ngajiwa was very different from his brother Sunario: taller, coarser, without the latter’s shadow-puppet quality. Although younger, he looked older, his features engrained with passion, his eyes burning with passion: for women, for wine, for opium, and, especially, passion for gambling. Silent thoughts seemed to light up that leisurely, languid conversation, without ideas and with so few words, constantly punctuated by the polite “yes, yes” behind which they all hid their secret longing… They spoke Malay, since Mrs Van Oudijck did not dare speak Javanese, that refined, difficult language, full of nuances of etiquette, which few Dutch people ventured to use with a high-ranking Javanese. They said little, but rocked gently; a vague courteous smile indicated that they were all involved in the conversation, even though only Mrs De Luce exchanged the occasional word… Until finally the De Luces—the old mother, her son Roger and the brown daughters-in-law—could no longer contain themselves, even in front of Mrs Van Oudijck, and laughed in embarrassment, while drinks and cake were served and until, despite their politeness, they quickly conferred with a few words of Javanese, over Léonie’s head, and the old mama, no longer able to control herself, finally asked her if she would mind if they played a hand or two of cards. Despite themselves, they all looked at her, the District Commissioner’s wife, the wife of the representative of Dutch power, who they knew hated their gambling, their ruin, which claimed the
highest Javanese dynasties, whom the Commissioner wished to sustain. But she, being too indifferent, wouldn’t dream of preventing them with a tactful jocular word, for her husband’s sake: she, the slave of her own passion, allowed them to be enslaved by theirs, and to revel in it. She simply smiled and was quite happy for the gamblers to retire to the twilight of the wide, square inner gallery, the ladies now greedily
counting
their money in their handkerchiefs, alternating with the men, until they were all sitting close together, eyes glued to the cards, sneaking glances at each other and playing
endlessly
—winning, losing, paying or collecting their winnings, opening the handkerchief full of money for a second and then closing it again, without a word, only the rustle of the small square cards in the twilight of the inner gallery. Were they playing
vingt-et-un
or the native game of
setoter?
Léonie had no idea, being indifferent, far from sharing that passion, and glad that Addy stayed sitting next to her and Theo looking jealously at him. Did he know? Did he suspect something? Would Urip keep her mouth shut? She revelled in the emotion and wanted them both, white and brown, and the fact that Doddy was now sitting on the other side of Addy, rocking almost in a swoon, caused her intense and wicked pleasure. What else was there in life but to abandon oneself to the urge of one’s sensual longings? She had no ambition, was
indifferent
to her high position; she, the first lady in the district, who delegated her responsibilities to Eva Eldersma, and to whom it meant nothing that hundreds of people at the receptions in Labuwangi, Ngajiwa and elsewhere greeted her with the
kind of ceremony reminiscent of a royal audience—who secretly, in her perverse, pink daydreams, with a novel by Mendès in her hands, scoffed at provincial exaggeration, in which the wife of a district commissioner can be a queen. She had no other ambition but to possess the man she deemed worthy of her choice; no other spiritual life than the cult of her body, like an Aphrodite acting as her own priestess. What did she care if they were playing cards in there, or if the Prince of Ngajiwa ruined himself! On the other hand, she found it important to observe the traces of that ruin in his ravaged face and resolved to take even better care of herself. To have Urip massage her face and limbs, to have her prepare even more of the white liquid rice powder, the wonder cream, the magic ointment of which Urip knew the secret and which kept the skin firm, white and as wrinkle-free as a mangosteen. She found it fascinating to see the Prince of Ngajiwa burning up like a candle, his mind dulled by women, wine, opium, cards—perhaps most of all by cards, from peering stupefied at them, gambling, calculating odds that could not be calculated, calculating superstitiously, working out according to the traditional
petangan
almanacs the day and time when he must play in order to win, the required number of players, the amount of his stake… Now and then she stole a glance at the players in the inner gallery, shrouded in twilight and greed, and she thought of what Van Oudijck would say and how angry he would be if she told him about it… What difference did it make to him whether that royal family was ruined? What did she
care about his policies, or Dutch policies in general, which are so keen to maintain the high reputation of the Javanese nobility, through whom they rule the population? What did she care if Van Oudijck, thinking of the noble old
pangéran
, was saddened by the visible decline of his children? None of this mattered to her, all that mattered to her was herself and Addy and Theo. She had decided to tell her stepson, her blond lover, that afternoon not to be so jealous. It was becoming noticeable, she was sure that Doddy could see it. Hadn’t she saved the poor child from herself yesterday? But how long would that warning last? Would it not be better if she warned Van Oudijck, like a good, careful mother?… Her thoughts roamed languidly; the morning was boiling, in those last scorching days of the east monsoon, when the limbs are covered in beads of sweat. Her body trembled and, leaving Doddy with Addy, she carried Theo off, and reproached him for looking so jealous. He seethed with anger, red-faced, clenching his fists, then imploring, then almost weeping with impotent rage. She became rather angry and asked him what he wanted…
They had gone around the side of the house, into the long side veranda; there were caged monkeys with banana skins strewn around them from the fruit the creatures had eaten, fed to them by the grandchildren.
The gong for the
rijsttafel
had already sounded twice, and on the back veranda the maids were already squatting and preparing everyone’s spices. But around the gaming table people seemed deaf. The whispering voices grew louder and
harsher, and both Léonie and Theo pricked up their ears. A sudden quarrel seemed to have flared up, despite Mrs De Luce’s attempts to smooth things over between Roger and the Prince. They spoke Javanese, but had abandoned all
politeness
. They were yelling at each other like coolies, accusing each other of cheating. They heard the repeated attempts of the old Mrs De Luce to calm things down, supported by her daughters and daughters-in-law. But chairs were roughly pushed back, a glass broke, and Roger appeared to throw down the cards in anger. All the women inside called for calm in high-pitched voices, muted voices, whispering, with little exclamations, little cries of indulgence and indignation. All over the house the countless servants listened. Then the argument subsided: long, angry declarations continued to flare up between the Prince and Roger; the women tried to shush them, embarrassed by the presence of the District Commissioner’s wife, looking to see where she might be. And things finally quietened down and they resumed their seats in silence, hoping that the quarrel had not been too audible. Until finally, very late—getting on for three o’clock in the afternoon—the old Mrs De Luce, the passion for gambling still gleaming in her dulled eyes, yet summoning up all her princess’s prestige, came onto the front veranda as if nothing had happened and asked whether Mrs Van Oudijck would care to join them for lunch.