De stille kracht. English

by Louis Couperus

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Things had gone well with Van Oudijck upon the whole. Born of a simpleDutch family, with no money, he had found his youth a hard thoughnever cruel school of precocious earnestness, of early strenuouswork, of immediate looking forward to the future, to a career,to the honourable position which he hoped--with the least possibledelay--to fill among his fellow-men. His years of oriental study atDelft had been just gay enough to enable him later to believe that hehad once been young; and, because he had taken part in a masquerade,he even thought that he had spent quite a dissolute life, with muchsquandering of money and riotous living. His character was based ona good deal of quiet Dutch respectability and an earnest outlook uponlife, a rather gloomy, disillusioned outlook, though intelligent andpractical: he was accustomed to visualize his honourable positionamong his fellow-men; and his ambition had developed rhythmicallyand steadily into a temperate thirst for position, but only on thelines along which his eyes were always wont to gaze: the hierarchicallines of the Indian Civil Service. Things had always gone well withhim. Displaying great capacity, he had been greatly valued; he hadbecome an assistant-resident earlier than most and a resident whilestill young; and his ambition was now really satisfied because hisauthoritative office was in complete harmony with his nature, whoselove of rule had progressed with its ambition. He was now reallysatisfied; and, though his eyes looked still much farther ahead andsaw glimmering before them a seat on the Indian Council, and eventhe throne at Buitenzorg, he had days when, sober and contented, hedeclared that to become a resident of the first class--putting asidethe higher pension--had little in its favour except at Samarang andSurabaya, but that the Vorstenlanden were absolutely a burden, whileBatavia occupied such a peculiar and almost derogatory position,in the thick of so many higher officials, members of council anddirectors. And, though his eyes thus looked farther ahead, hispractical and temperate nature would have been quite satisfied ifany one should have prophesied to him that he would die as Residentof Labuwangi. He loved his district and loved India; he neveryearned for Holland, nor for the pageant of European civilization,even though he himself had remained very Dutch and above all hatedanything that was half-caste. This was the inconsistency in hischaracter, for he had married his first wife, herself a half-caste,purely out of affection; and, as for his children, in whom the Indianblood was eloquent--outwardly in Doddie, inwardly in Theo, while Reneand Ricus were two thorough little Eurasians--he loved them with anintense feeling of paternity, with all the tenderness and sentimentthat slumbered in the depths of his nature: a need to give much andreceive much in the circle of his domestic life. Gradually this needhad extended to the circle of his district: he took a paternal pridein his assistant-residents and controllers, among whom he was popularand beloved. It had happened only once in the six years during whichhe had been Resident of Labuwangi that he had been unable to get onwith a controller: then the man was a half-caste, and he had had himtransferred: had him sacked, as he put it. And he was proud that,despite his strict discipline, despite his stern insistence onwork, he was beloved by his officials. He was all the more grievedby the constant secret enmity of the regent, his "younger brother,"to use the Javanese title, in whom indeed he would gladly have founda younger brother to govern his native population under himself,the elder brother. It grieved him that matters had fallen out thus;and he would then think of other regents, not only of this one'sfather, the fine old pangeran, but of others whom he knew: the Regentof D---, a cultivated man, speaking and writing Dutch correctly,contributing lucid Dutch articles to newspapers and magazines; theRegent of S---, a trifle frivolous and vain, but very rich and verybenevolent, figuring as a dandy in European society and polite tothe ladies. Why should things have fallen out just so in Labuwangi,with this silent, spiteful, secretive, fanatical puppet, with thereputation of a saint and sorcerer, stupidly idolized by the people,in whose welfare he took no interest and who adored him only forthe glamour of his ancient name, a man in whom he always felt anantagonism, never uttered in words, but plainly palpable under hisicy correctness of demeanour? And then at Ngadjiwa too there wasthe brother, the card-player, the gambler: why should just he be sounlucky in his regents?

  Van Oudijck was in a gloomy mood. He was accustomed to receiving,at regular intervals, anonymous letters, venomous libels spewed forthfrom quiet corners, bespattering at one time an assistant-resident, atanother a controller, besmirching now the native head-men and now hisown family; sometimes taking the form of a friendly warning, sometimesdisplaying a malicious delight in wounding; very, very anxious toopen his eyes to the shortcomings of his officials and to his wife'smisconduct. He was so completely used to this that he did not countthe letters, reading them hastily or hardly at all and carelesslydestroying them. Accustomed as he was to judging for himself, thesespiteful warnings made no impression on him, though they reared theirheads like hissing snakes among all the letters which the post broughthim daily; and as regards his wife he was so blind, he had always beenso much in the habit of picturing Leonie in the tranquillity of hersmiling indifference and in the home-like sociability which she mostcertainly attracted round her--in the hollow void of the residency,whose chairs and ottomans seemed always arranged for a reception--thathe could never have credited the most trivial of all these slanders.

  He never mentioned them to her. He loved his wife; he was in love withher; and, as he always saw her almost silent in society, as she neverflirted or coquetted, he never glanced into the slough of corruptionthat was her soul. At home, indeed, he was absolutely blind. Athome he displayed that utter blindness which is often seen in menwho are very capable and efficient in their business or profession;who are accustomed to scan with sharp eyes the wide perspective oftheir official duties, but who are near-sighted at home; who are wontto analyse things in the lump, but not their psychological details;whose knowledge of mankind is based on principles, and who dividemankind into types, as in the caste of an old-fashioned play; who canat once plumb the capacity of their subordinates, but are utterlyunable to realize the intricate complex, like a tangled arabesque,like rankly-growing tendrils, of the psychic involution of those whoform their own household: always gazing over their heads, failingto grasp the inner meaning of their speech, and taking no interestin the kaleidoscopic emotions of hatred and jealousy and life andlove that shine with prismatic hues right before their eyes. He lovedhis wife and he loved his children, because the feeling and the factof paternity were necessities of his being; but he knew neither hiswife nor his children. He knew nothing about Leonie; and he had neverrealized that Theo and Doddie had secretly remained faithful to theirmother, so far away in Batavia, ruined by her unspeakable mode oflife, and that they felt no love for him. He thought that they didgive him their love; and, as for him ... when he thought of them,a slumbering affection awoke within him.

  He received these anonymous letters daily. They had never made animpression on him; yet of late he no longer destroyed them, but readthem attentively and put them aside in a secret drawer. He couldnot have said why. They contained accusations against his wife, theycontained imputations against his daughter. They sought to intimidatehim by threatening that he might be stabbed in the dark. They warnedhim that his spies were utterly untrustworthy. They told him thathis divorced wife was suffering from poverty and hated him, theytold him that he had a son whom he had left unprovided for. Theystealthily grubbed up all the secret or obscure passages in hislife and his career. The thing depressed his spirits in spite ofhimself. It was all very vague; and he had nothing with which toreproach himself. In his own eyes and the world's, he was a goodofficial, a good husband and a good father, he was a good man. Thathe should be blamed for having judged too unjustly and unfairly here,for having acted cruelly there, for having divorced his first wife,for having a son running wild in the compound; that people shouldthrow mud at Leonie and Doddie: it all depressed him nowadays. For itwas unaccountable that people should do just this. To this man, withhis practical good sense, the vague
ness was just the most vexatiouspart of it. He would not fear an open fight, but this mock battlein the dark was upsetting his nerves and his health. He could notconceive why it was happening. There was nothing to tell him. Hecould not conjure up the face of an enemy. And the letters came dayafter day; and enmity lurked daily in the shadows about him. It wastoo mystical and too much opposed to his nature not to embitter anddepress and sadden him. Then paragraphs appeared in the lesser papers,utterances of a mean and hostile press, vague accusations or palpablefalsehoods. Hatred was seething all about him. He could not fathom thereason of it, he became ill from brooding over it. And he discussedit with nobody and hid his suffering deep down within himself.

  He did not understand it. He could not imagine why it was, why itshould be so. There was no logic in it all. Logically he shouldbe loved, not hated, however strict and authoritative he mightbe considered. Indeed, did he not often temper his authoritativestrictness with the jovial laugh under his thick moustache, witha friendly, genial warning and exhortation? Was he not on circuita pleasant resident, who regarded the circuit with his officialsas a relaxation, as a delightful trip on horseback through thecoffee-plantations, touching at the go-downs in each; as a jollyexcursion, which relaxed one's muscles after all those weeks ofoffice-work: the big staff of district heads following on theirlittle horses, riding their skittish animals like nimble monkeys,with flags in their hands; with the native orchestra tinkling out itsblithe crystal notes of welcome wherever he went; with the carefullyprepared dinner in the dak-bungalow in the evening and the rubbertill late at night? Had not his officials, in informal moments,told him that he was a regular sport of a resident, an indefatigablerider, jovial at meals and so young that he would actually takethe scarf from the nautch-girl and dance with her for a moment,very cleverly performing the lissom ritual movements of the handsand feet and hips, instead of buying himself off with a rix-dollarand leaving her to dance with the district head? Never did he feelso happy as on circuit. And now that he was gloomy and depressed,dissatisfied, not knowing what hidden forces were opposing him in thedusk--straight, honest man that he was, a man of simple principles,a serious worker--he thought that he would go on circuit soon and, bythat diversion, rid himself of the gloom that was oppressing him. Hewould ask Theo to go with him, for the sake of a few days' change.

  He was fond of his boy, even though he considered him stupid,thoughtless, reckless, lacking in perseverance, never satisfied withhis superiors, tactlessly opposing his manager, until he had once moremade himself impossible in the coffee-plantation or sugar-factoryat which he happened to be employed. He considered that Theo oughtto make his own way, as his father had done before him, instead ofrelying entirely on the resident's protection. He did not hold withnepotism. He would never favour his son above any one else who hadthe same rights. He had often told nephews of his, keen on obtainingconcessions in Labuwangi, that he would rather have no relationsin his district and that they must expect nothing from him exceptabsolute impartiality. That was how he had got on; that was how heexpected them to get on ... and Theo too. Nevertheless, he silentlywatched Theo, with all a father's love, with an almost sentimentaltenderness; he regretted, silently but profoundly, that Theo was notmore persevering and did not look more closely to his future, to hiscareer, to an honourable situation among his fellow-men, from thestandpoint of either money or position. The lad just lived from dayto day, without a thought of the morrow.... Perhaps he was a littlecold to Theo, outwardly: well, he would have a confidential talk withhim some day, would advise him; and now, in any case, he would askTheo to go with him on circuit.

  And the thought of riding for five or six days in the pure airof the mountains, through the coffee-plantations, inspecting theirrigation-works, doing what most of all attracted him in his officialduties, the thought of this relieved his soul, brightened his outlook,till he ceased to think about the letters. He was made for a plain,simple life: he found life natural, not complex and involved; hislife had followed a perceptible ascent, open and gradual, looking outtowards a glittering summit of ambition; and the things that teemedand swarmed in the shadow and the darkness, the things that bubbledup from the abyss: these he had never been able or anxious to see. Hewas blind to the life that underlies the visible life. He did notbelieve in it, any more than a mountaineer who has lived long on aquiescent volcano believes in the inner fire which persists in itsmysterious depths and which escapes only in the form of hot steam anda sulphurous stench. He believed neither in the force above things norin the force of things themselves. He did not believe in dumb fatenor in silent inevitability. He believed only in what he saw withhis own eyes: in the harvest, in the roads, districts and villagesand in the welfare of his province; he believed only in his career,which he saw before him like an ascending path. And, in the uncloudedclarity of his simple, masculine nature, in the universally perceptibleobviousness of his upright love of authority, his legitimate ambitionand his practical sense of duty, there was only one weak point: hisaffection, his deep, almost effeminate, sentimental affection for themembers of his domestic circle ... into whose soul he could not see,being blind and seeing only in the light of his fixed principle,seeing his wife and children as they ought to be.

  Experience had taught him nothing. For he had loved his first wife alsoas he now loved Leonie.... He loved his wife because she was his wife,because she belonged to him, because she was the principal person inhis circle. He loved the circle as such and not as so many individualswho formed its links. Experience had taught him nothing. His thoughtswere not in accordance with the changing hues of his life; theyaccorded with his ideas and principles. They had made a man and aforce of him and also a good official. They had also allowed him asa rule to be a good man, according to his lights. But, because hepossessed so much affection, unconscious, unanalysed and merely verydeeply felt, and because he did not believe in the hidden force, in thelife within life, in the force that teemed and swarmed like volcanicfires under the mountains of majesty, like troubles under a throne,because he did not believe in the mysticism of tangible things, lifesometimes found him weak and unprepared when, serene as the gods andmore powerful than men, it deviated from what he regarded as logical.