Love and Death in Bali

by Vicki Baum

  The old tjokorda smiled as Alit said this. It seemed to him that there was no need to labor in so many abstruse words a point so simple as this, that pride and honor could not be surrendered. “It does not matter by what roads we arrive at our resolve,” he said gently. “You come from one side, I from the other. The main thing is that we meet in the middle and are of the same mind.”

  Alit got up and opened the door on to the portico, for the opium smoke made breathing difficult. “It has stopped raining,” he said, looking out into the courtyards, thronged with people passing to and fro, where the sun shone in the pools of rain. The sound of a gamelan was wafted over the moist air. “I wish I knew how old I was,” he said turning back meditatively to his uncle’s couch. “No one has kept count of the years for me. They make a great noise over my birthday, and six girls, I am told, are going to be married to me to complete the festivities. But when I look within myself, I do not know whether I am old or young.”

  “You are young, for you were a child when the Batur Mountain burst and hurled great stones on to the beach,” the old man said. “And you have not even begotten your first son.”

  Two messengers came running through the court and fell on their knees at the foot of the steps, making a great show of their exhaustion and breathlessness. “It appears that the Resident has landed,” Alit said, turning back into the room. “I must get ready to receive him.” He beckoned to Oka and supported himself on his slender shoulders.

  “Beg the Resident to excuse me. Show him all the hospitality Badung has to offer. You can give way on small points—but stand fast on the main one,” the old lord said. Alit took his leave with tender devotion, and as soon as the door closed behind him, Madé let his head sink back on the cushions, shut his eyes for weariness and once more his brain was clouded with pain.

  Alit motioned away the chair-bearers and umbrella carriers who awaited him on the steps. He wanted to take deep breaths of the fresh moist air before receiving the Resident. The day, with all its festivities and demands, rose before him like a mountain. He walked quickly through the courts, greeted on all sides, but his eyes saw nothing. His bare feet trod through the puddles and over stones. Once he grasped behind his shoulder for his kris and pushed it more firmly into his belt.

  A shadow fell across his path and when he looked up he saw Bijang before him. She was a tall, white-haired woman and the mother of the old tjokorda. She was as old as a stone or a wairingin tree and the skin was stretched so tightly over her skull that her head had grown as small as a child’s. Bijang was held in great honor in the puri and she kept a firm hand over the wives and slave-girls without fear or favor. Though she leant on the gold handle of her stick she walked without difficulty and her sight was keen. It was remarkable that in Bijang’s hundred-year-old face the young girl was still to be detected in a smile or a glance under her eyelashes.

  “Where are you going, child?” she asked, with her arm round Alit’s hips.

  “I must greet my guests, mother.”

  “I know,” she said, looking keenly at him. “You have offered the white man a lodging for the night. Is he your friend?”

  “He calls himself so,” Alit said. “Perhaps he may be. I shall soon know.”

  “Be careful,” the old lady said, “Think thrice before you speak once. And, if you want the advice of a stupid old woman,” she added, smiling confidentially, “stop Molog’s mouth. He talks too loudly and too much and he has more courage than sense.”

  Alit looked confidingly in her face and she blinked her eyes in a way that made him laugh. He conducted her as far as the steps of her balé and then proceeded on his way through lanes full of fowls, pigs and ducks. He had scarcely reached the puri and entered his own house when there was a roar and the glass panes shook in his windows.

  The guns had been fired to salute the Resident and the critical day had begun.

  Muna, the slave-girl, crouched in front of Lambon, carefully shaving her eyebrows. She squinted in her eagerness and her tongue went without ceasing like a clapper in a rice-field. “I thought the earth had burst or the Batur Mountain broken out and was hurling stones out of itself into Batur Lake, as the old people say happened once. But it was that thing they call a cannon. Bernis fainted even though she stopped her ears with her fingers and we had to throw a lot of cold water over her to bring her round. Were you frightened too, Lambon? You look as though you’d been crying.”

  “So do you,” Lambon said without moving her head in case of interfering with the ticklish business of her eyebrows.

  “I? That means nothing. Bernis beat me, and I know her. She never stops till she sees tears. She gets more difficult every week and I know why, but I don’t say. I’ll tell you because you have always been kind to me. She has her eyes on a young man whom you know too. But he won’t take any notice and it’s only right. He must not see the wife of a raja even if she puts herself right in his path. He keeps to slave-girls who are free and can give love where they please. He is a very young man and you know him, too.”

  “I know no men,” Lambon said. Muna had finished the shaving and now she pulled a basket containing powder and lamp-black towards her with her foot and after she had blown on Lambon’s eyebrows the task of beautifying began.

  “Yes, you do. Just think,” she said. Lambon thought. “Raka,” she said.

  Muna fell backwards for laughing. “Raka,” she screamed. “What makes you think of Raka? Of all the men you could think of he’s the very last! No, if you want to know, it is Meru, the sculptor, your brother. You are like him and that is why I am fond of you,” she added rather more soberly. Lambon nestled up to the little slave-girl for a moment, for she felt very lonely in the puri and hungered for a little warmth.

  “What has my little sister been crying about?” Muna asked gently, rocking her to and fro.

  “I am afraid,” Lambon said.

  “You need have no fear. You are the youngest and most beautiful of the six wives to be married to the lord today. Old Ranis told me he asked after you twice. You will see, he’ll send for you tonight and nobody else. And tomorrow I shall not be able to come and play with you. I shall have to call you mistress and use many fine words when I address you.”

  Lambon smiled sadly. “That is what I am afraid of,” she said, “that he will send for me.”

  Muna pushed her away and looked at her, shaking her head. “I don’t know how to behave,” Lambon whispered.

  “What have you been doing all the six months you’ve shared a home with Tumun, that’s what I’d like to know,” Muna said with a certain severity. “If you did not learn from her, you will never learn. They say she was a whore in Kesiman for five years and there is not a woman in the puri who is so experienced as she. That is why the youngest girl always lives with her so that she can teach them. But you are none the wiser, apparently.”

  “Tumun was always kind to me,” Lambon said.

  Muna looked at her friend and still shook her head. “You have no more will of your own than a papaya hanging on the tree. It is all the same to you whether you are picked or not,” she said reproachfully. At that moment she heard a noise and slipping noiselessly away she climbed on to a wall and looked over with rapt attention into the next courtyard. Lambon put her hands to her hair without daring to touch it, for it was already fluffed out and piled artistically on the crown of her head; so after letting her hands hover about it she put them in her lap again. Muna came back and her kain was wet where she had sat on it.

  “Now they have conducted the white man to the large balé,” she whispered excitedly. “That’s where the great council is to be held. Ida Katut says the white man is very pleased with the special house built for him. But Ida Katut says he is no raja, though he expects and receives such great honors. Ida Katut says he has brought the prince a wonderful present. It is a little house of tortoise-shell and on the roof lie two figures of heavy yellow metal, a man and a woman, and the man holds a sickle in his hand. Underneath them
is a large face with many figures on it and it shows the time. Inside the house there is a heart beating and as soon as an hour has gone by, a bell sounds and music plays. The music, however, is not beautiful, Ida Katut says, and he has heard it, and the hours are shorter than ours, for the white men have greater haste and less patience. The Master, our Lord, greeted the white man in the speech of Java, Ida Katut says, and called him Brother. But I must say I call it bad manners to shoot off cannon and frighten a guest when he arrives. Now let me have your legs and I’ll rub them with oil, for today your whole body must be smooth. And if you would like to see your brother Meru let me know and I’ll bring him to you secretly. But you mustn’t think because of that…”

  “Muna, what are you doing here?” Tumun called out. She was coming up the steps. “Your mistress Bernis is shouting for you so loud that the very monkeys are frightened and breaking their chains. She has got a wet cord ready to give you a good beating with because you have kept her waiting with her hair all uncombed. Run, run quick —I’ll get Lambon ready.”

  Muna pulled a face and ran off like a little monkey. It began to pelt with rain and she flung her kain over her head to protect her hair and splashed bravely on through the rain puddles with naked legs gleaming.

  The conference took place in the large open balé. It was shut off from the outer world by the sheets of rain that ran down off the roof, which was constructed in two tiers. Sometimes this rush of water made such a noise that it drowned the speeches and its monotone had such a drowsing effect that a few old dignitaries in the back rows nodded. The Resident and his staff sat on chairs at a long table. Both chairs and table had been provided by the Chinese for the occasion. The prince, too, had a chair on which he sat very uncomfortably with his legs folded beneath him. Although he wore a short black coat with long sleeves he shivered with cold every now and then, and also with the strain and mortification of the proceedings. The Resident, on the other hand, felt hot in his starched tunic and its collar begin to wilt beneath his fleshy chin. Visser, who sat beside him, helped him out with a few murmured words in Balinese, for though the Resident spoke Javanese fluently, there were nevertheless moments when the raja was perplexed by the stilted and involved expressions of one who had learnt the language only from books and was endeavouring to put his meaning into polished and high-sounding phrases.

  It was nearly dusk when the session drew to a close. The Resident rose to his feet and, casting his eyes overthe counsellors and court dignitaries squatting in row after row on their mats, said in conclusion:

  “The Government of my country has shown great forbearance and patience. It has been reluctant to send soldiers and guns to Badung and to take by force the sum of money we have the right to demand. I have come here as your friend and elder brother and as such I have been received, for which I thank you from my heart. And as friend and elder brother I counsel you here and now for the last time: Let Badung pay the sum of three thousand rix-dollars as compensation for the ship which was plundered and destroyed on the coast of Sanur. With that the whole matter is at an end and the independence of Badung remains unimpaired.”

  The Resident surveyed the dour faces of the assembled Balinese—large oblique eyes, lowered eyelashes, compressed lips, and on every forehead a look of drowsed insensibility. He felt the blood rush to his head.

  “If the Counsellors of the Lord of Badung care for the peace and security of their country and their lord they will give their voice for paying the money, just as I have again and again counselled my Government to abstain from taking the field against Badung. But as friend and brother I must warn you that the patience of my Government is at an end. This is my last word and I have no further proposal to make.”

  The Resident had raised his voice at the end to be heard above the rain. When he sat down Visser stood up and repeated what he had said in Balinese so that all should understand. Nevertheless the faces of the men remained completely impassive. The silence was broken only by the rain. Then Molog, the captain, leant forward and said, “And what happens if Badung declines to pay?”

  The Resident jumped up and his forehead went crimson. “That is a question I do not wish to answer,” he shouted. “But whatever happens will be Badung’s responsibility.”

  Lord Alit had scarcely spoken during the whole discussion. He had left it to his counsellors and dignitaries to speak for him. Now they all looked at him as though they awaited a final answer. He raised his clasped hands to his brow and remained thus for several moments in mute concentration. When he began to speak, Ida Katut, who as usual sat at his feet, observed that his lips had gone white.

  “I have heard the words of my friend and brother, the Resident of Bali and Lombok,” he said, and his voice was so low that the men in the back rows put their hands to their ears, “and I thank my friend and brother for his advice and also for his wish to keep war and subjection from our borders. I, too, desire peace. In proof of this I have today come to new agreements and put my name to new documents, by which I have promised to give up old and sacred rights and usages of this country. It is true that for a long time no widow has been compelled to suffer herself to be burnt with her dead husband; but from now onwards widows are strictly forbidden to seek even a voluntary death. I have agreed also to a limitation of the death sentence, not because I consider it right but because I wish to give the Dutch Government a proof of my goodwill. As for the payment of three thousand rix-dollars I cannot myself alone decide this question. It is unfortunate that my co-regent and father, the lord of Pametjutan, is stricken down with sickness and incapable of taking part in this conference. I will consult with him about it as soon as he is strong enough and I will then send my answer to Buleleng.”

  “The lord of Pametjutan was not too weak only the other day to enter personally into a sworn alliance with the lord of Tabanan,” the Resident shouted angrily. The courtiers stirred uneasily, and the light skin of the young lord went almost white, but he controlled himself. “The Dutch Government,” he said gently, “have frequently expected us to keep the peace with our neighbors. The alliance with Tabanan carries out this wish of theirs.”

  Suddenly the rain stopped and the abrupt silence was like a void in which the voices lost themselves. The Resident collected himself and mastered his temper.

  “My friend, the lord of Badung, has two weeks in which to give his answer,” he said tersely. “If the three thousand rix-dollars are not paid by the sixth day of next month, my Government will blockade the territory of Badung and send warships. I thank the raja and his counsellors for this discussion. I have no more to say.”

  He stood up and pushed back his chair before Visser had finished translating this ultimatum into Balinese. The assembly then broke up with a murmur of voices and a stretching of limbs. “These Dutch have little patience but much tenacity,” the anak Agung Bima said to the anak Agung Wana. The roof now only dripped and the court yard was pink with the reflection of the clouds sailing overhead. The prince overtook the Resident on the steps and laid his hand on his shoulder.

  “My friend is tired out with so much talking,” he said friendlily. “We all need a little rest. The evening promises to be fine and my dancers are eager to show what they can do. Our little festivity begins with the rising of the moon—we will enjoy it together as brothers.” The Asiatic smoothness of this exasperated the Resident, who was already harassed by the exhausting and fruitless sitting. He could control himself no longer and his only response was to shake the prince’s hand brusquely from his shoulder and to go on without a word. Alit stopped dead on the steps, white with mortification. His courtiers now all spoke to him at once, but he did not hear them. He looked with frowning eyes after the short white form as it quickly crossed the court and his breath came and went in short sharp gasps between his clenched teeth.

  The house in which Berginck was lodged had been built specially for his visit. As a further mark of hospitality an attempt had been made to build it in the style of the Dutch houses of B
uleleng, with a stoep and walls painted yellow and many hanging lamps with silk shades. Even the portrait of the Queen of Holland was not wanting: it had been cut out of a newspaper and tacked up on the wall. A few lancers crouched at the entrance as a guard of honor, but the Resident had as well a guard of his own, four Dutch soldiers with beards and barrel-chests and the slouch hats worn by the colonial troops. “Can’t say the palaver was a great success, eh, Visser?” Berginck said as he mounted the steps and lit a cigar. He pulled hard at it in the hope of calming his nerves, but for some reason he found it tasted of nothing and taking it out of his mouth again he looked disapprovingly at it.

  “They’ve taken offence,” Visser said. “We must have trodden on one of their Balinese corns again without knowing it.”

  “I’m fed up with these everlasting talky-talkies which lead to nothing, that’s all I have to say,” the Resident said testily. “We go round in circles and get nowhere. I feel sometimes that they’re simply making fools of us.” He took another look at his cigar, cursed under his breath and threw it into the courtyard. “Well, see you later,” he said, and went on up the steps.

  “Is it the Resident’s wish that I should draw up a report at once?” Visser asked from below.

  “Do what you like. We shall have to talk to these people again tomorrow. Wait a bit—you know the young lord better than I do. What sort of a fellow is he? I can’t make him out. He seems soft and yet he’s as obstinate as a mule, pig-headed to the pitch of absurdity…”

  “I have always taken him for something of a visionary, Resident. More of a student than a raja. It’s easier to know your way about with a realist like our Gusti.”