Love and Death in Bali

by Vicki Baum

  As Alit said no more and merely looked at the landscape with the same drowsily absorbed expression, Raka asked, “And what has my brother resolved?”

  “I rode on alone with you away from the rest because I had to be clear in my own mind. I must meet my friends of Tabanan and Kloengkoeng with my mind made up and I must tell the Dutch envoy what I have decided. I shall pay nothing.”

  “Does that mean war?” Raka asked after a moment’s silence. “Probably,” Alit replied. “Yes, probably it means war. War and our overthrow is what the Dutch want and therefore it means war. I cannot pay. They know that. If I paid, it would amount to the confession that we were thieves and wreckers, that we begged for pardon and consented to make retribution. Ask yourself whether you find that possible. Money—” he said contemptuously, and his eyes darkened, “if it were a matter only of money, it would be nothing to pay it. I am rich enough and my family would gladly help me. My uncle has offered to contribute half the sum and Bijang, his revered mother, is willing to give me all the money I could need to satisfy the Dutch. But it is not a question of money. Our honor and dignity and pride are at stake. How can they expect me to pay when by paying I brand myself as thief, a liar and a robber?”

  Raka took a sidelong look at his friend’s face. “I shall be glad if it is war,” he said.

  Alit threw back his head and laughed aloud. “You great Molog,”

  he said with affectionate mockery.

  “It even has its amusing side,” he said, resuming his monologue. “The Chinese merchants on the coast have offered to pay this levy for me, as a gift more or less. Did you know that these Chinese traders in swine and buffaloes had such generous souls? Probably they have reckoned it out and find it cheaper to pay the Dutch than to have their trade ruined by the blockade.”

  “And what have you replied?” Raka asked, marvelling at the foreign word—blockade.

  “Declined, naturally. Am I not only to swallow this insult the Dutch offer me, but to let these Chinese traders pay the cost of it for me?” Alit laughed again at the thought of it. A procession of women, coming from a spring with water-jars on their heads, stopped to look at the strangers on horseback.

  “Nyoman of Buleleng and Ngurah of Gianjar, who have come to terms with the Dutch, call me pig-headed and obstinate. They consider me a fool. But, Raka, I tell you I know what I am doing and that I have taken the right path. The Dutch do not in the least want me to give way. They want an excuse for war. Their demands mount up as a papaya tree shoots up in the rainy season. If tomorrow I pay what they ask, next week they will find some new cause of annoyance and make fresh demands. I have had some Dutch writings translated for me, because I wanted to try to penetrate into their thoughts. There can be no peace between them and me. I have no choice. There is only one path for me if I am to listen to the gods and my forefathers and the voice within me. Do you understand that, Raka?”

  Raka was overwhelmed with shame at these words. No woman in all Bali was worth the betrayal of a friend like Alit. He, too, had a voice within him, deep within him and he had drowned it and talked it down; he had been as a drunken man for many months, not knowing what he did. He could not speak, but he reined his horse in nearer Alit’s and laid his hand on Alit’s hand. Alit looked in his face with a smile.

  “It is good that we are riding through the country together,” he said kindly. “It has made much clear to me. I have looked about me and I cannot believe there is a country on earth as beautiful as Bali. I cannot give it away to foreigners or sell it. I cannot and I may not. What would they make of it once it was in their hands? They do not know our gods and they do not understand the laws by which mankind must live. They would pull down the temples, and the gods would forsake our island, and soon it would become as barren and ugly as the deserts of China. They would grow sugar-cane, not as our peasants do, just enough to sweeten their food and for their children to enjoy; they would cover the whole country with sugarcane and boil it down into sugar in large buildings, until the villages stank of it, and they would take the sugar away in great steamers to change it into money. They would plant ugly trees in rows and draw rubber from them; they would lay the sawahs waste and cut down the beautiful palms and fruit trees to make room for their towns. They would turn our peasants into slaves and brutes, and leave them no time for cockfights and festivals and music and dancing. And our women would have to cover their breasts as if they were whores, and no one would wear flowers in their hair any more or bring offerings to the temples. And they would squeeze the joy from the hearts of our children, and tear the patience and tolerance and gentleness from their natures, and make them bitter and unkind and discontented, as the white men are themselves. And here am I, the lord over a land which the gods gave to my forefathers, and if no one else will stand in the white man’s path, then I must do so, if it is only I in the whole island. I am weak and incompetent and no hero as the great lords of Majapahit were from whom we are all descended.” Alit stopped a moment and then asked almost shyly, “Tell me, am I right, brother?”

  “I am too stupid to decide such matters,” Raka said. “But it seems to me there is nothing else you can do.” He paused for the flicker of an eyelid and then added, “It is well for you that you can follow the voice within you knowing that you cannot go wrong.”

  Alit stretched out his arm and pointed to the Great Mountain. With one accord the two clouds had lifted and now the peak rose high and clear, showing its softly streaked precipices and bearing on its flank the great sanctuary of Besaki and the dense primeval forests in which the rivers of the island took their source,—the Great Mountain, the dwellingplace of the Great God.

  “Tomorrow your father will help me to speak with the gods; I know that they will consent to what I have to do,” Alit said. Looking into Raka’s face he said with a smile, “Have I wearied you with my cares, my friend?”

  “I am very glad you have confided in me,” Raka answered. What have I said? he thought in the same moment with a start. You trust in me and what do I do with your trust? he thought. No woman is of such importance as to come between us, he thought again and for a few seconds he felt that he could cast the restless passion for Lambon, and all its blindness, aside. It is not the woman that matters, he thought a moment later. It is honor, Alit’s and mine.

  Alit reined in his horse and at once it began grazing at the edge of the road. Raka’s horse snorted and followed its example without waiting for its rider’s command. There was a moist smell of grass and green plants and the air had already a mountain keenness.

  “Raka, my brother,” Alit said, “it is long since we spoke together as we have today. I am going to ask you something now as we stand here in the sight of the Great Mountain. My answer to the Dutch may very easily mean war. And I do not wish to deceive myself—war with the white men is not a joke. It is perhaps the end. You know that I would never fall into their hands alive. Not one of my fathers has given himself up alive to any enemy. If the end came——”

  “Yes?” Raka asked intently when Alit hesitated. “If the end came?”

  Alit clasped his hands and lifted them to his forehead and said nothing for a few minutes, as his practice was when he concentrated himself to the utmost.

  “If the end were necessary—and I called upon you—are you ready to die with me?” he asked.

  A smile lit up Raka’s face, the old radiant and triumphant smile. All was smoothed out and made simple and his heart beat freely and evenly.

  “To die with you is the least you could require of me— my friend and brother,” he said gaily.

  “This jingle-jangle of the gamelan is enough to drive anybody crazy,” Commissarius van Tilema said to Controller Visser. “Won’t the blighters ever stop?”

  Berginck, the Resident, sat at the table smoking a cigar. “It is easy to see you have not been long in Bali, Herr van Tilema,” he said, laughing inwardly. Visser went down the steps and looked over the wall into the outer court of the puri. Below it sat the
gamelan players doing their best to honor the exalted guest. Visser came back.

  “If the Commissarius so desires I can tell the people to stop. But it is not very polite——”

  “Then, in God’s name, don’t let’s be polite,” Van Tilema said irritably. “You can’t hear yourself think. It has gone on now for five hours by the clock——” Visser disappeared once more. He went to the gamelan players and spoke to them. “The tuan Besar, the guest, wishes you to rest a little,” he said diplomatically. “He, too, would like to have a little sleep in order to be fresher for the enjoyment of the dancing later.”

  The gamelan players looked straight in front of them; some kept on playing, others laid down their sticks. The anak Agung Bima bustled up. “Do you not hear what the great lord commands? You are to stop playing so that he can sleep,” he shouted. “I will see that you have something to eat meanwhile,” he said more amiably. The men squatted down comfortably and chewed their sirih.

  “The guest wishes me to say also that he has never heard such a good gamelan in Java,” Visser added in order to leave a good impression.

  “We are only beginners and unworthy to play before the great lord,” the drummer said politely. There was some laughter from behind. Although they all knew that there was an island called Java, they were not sure all the same whether it belonged to this world or whether the world ended beyond the sea that encircled Bali. Visser clapped the anak Agung on the shoulder and went back to the Commissarius, whom the Government of Batavia had sent to straighten out the tangled situation in Bali. Berginck and Van Tilema were now sipping the thick, hot coffee which four servants had put on the table with great ceremony. It was about the second hour, and the puri had settled down after the firing of the salute and all the tumult and the talking which had greeted the distinguished visitors. A large number of Balinese were still squatting round the house in which the guests were lodged, and staring at the white men as they drank their coffee outside.

  “Can’t they be sent about their business?” Tilema asked impatiently. “Or have they paid their money to have a look at us? I feel like a chimpanzee in a zoo.”

  The Commissarius was a tall, lean man with young-looking eyes, a light yellow moustache and good features. He had white hands and tapering fingers, such as you see in portraits by Van Dyck. As a rule the very picture of unruffled amiability, he was in a state of nervous irritability that day. He had had an unpleasant journey; he had had a rough crossing to Bali, and being pulled ashore through the surf had left him with qualms in the stomach. He still had a rather sentimental love of Bali, for he had spent some time there when he first came out, and even had some acquaintance with the language. Van Tilema had a capacious and methodical memory, and what he had once known he never forgot. In spite of this the efforts he had had to make for the last three days, first at Tabanan and now in Badung, to listen to Balinese and to make his replies in it had been too much for him. He was one of the most capable, circumspect and best educated officials in the colonial service, and though a young man, held a high position on the Council of India. It was believed in Batavia that it was only necessary to send Van Tilema to Bali in order to have all difficulties solved and every demand conceded. The Commissarius was of the same opinion; he had gladly volunteered for the job; he wanted very much to see Bali again and he was confident of success. He was inspired also by professional vanity. He knew no greater pleasure than pulling chestnuts out of the fire without burning his fingers. He had insisted on the Government’s giving him the widest discretion, a discretion that did not preclude a friendly and accommodating solution. “I come as the dove with the olive branch,” he explained to the Resident on his arrival. And now he had spent three days in the puris, accepting presents and hospitality, being honored in every way, received with bent backs and clasped hands—and he began to see that he was not advancing by an inch and that behind all this formal politeness there was a steely resistance. So it had been yesterday and the day before at Tabanan, so it was today at Badung. “What’s that racket now?” he asked irritably, looking round quickly.

  “It’s the pigeons,” the Resident answered with a smile. “They have little silver bells on their feet which ring as they fly.”

  The Resident is making fun of me, Van Tilema thought in exasperation. The Commissarius is losing his nerve, the Resident thought complacently. These gentlemen from Batavia might now see for themselves that it was not so easy to make a Balinese raja see reason.

  The Resident had been aware now and again in recent months that he was getting older. The colonies used a man up quicker than life at home. Another half-year and he would have reached the age limit; then he would be given a minor decoration, a suave letter and his pension. He had a little house and tiny garden with a pear tree at The Hague, and a married daughter there and two grandchildren. Then the Tilemas and Boomsmers and the whole Government with the Governor-General at the top might play the fool with the Balinese to their hearts’ content. I have had enough of it, the Resident thought to himself. Let others take a turn.

  “What is the programme for the afternoon, Visser?” Van Tilema asked. “I’m pretty well at my last gasp and not very eager for another full-dress palaver. I must get used to all the officials here smelling of jasmine like the prostitutes in Singapore.”

  “Champak,” Visser muttered. “What?” asked the Commissarius. “What did you say?” Berginck remarked innocently. Van Tilema raised his eyebrows. Visser hurriedly intervened. “There are no ministerial visits nor official discussions for today,” he said. Visser propped his right arm on his left hand and pointed with outstretched thumb at the sky—in imitation of a Balinese telling the time. “When the sun is there, the Commissarius is awaited by the old lord of Pametjutan—provided of course he happens to be right in the head just then.” Once more the Commissarius had the feeling that he was not being taken seriously. Bali is demoralizing to officials, he thought most unjustly. “What time will that be?” he asked impatiently. “Three o’clock, Commissarius,” Visser replied smartly. “And the old lord is properly crazy, is he?” Van Tilema asked. The Resident took his cigar from his mouth. “It depends, Commissarius,” he said. “It’s in his head, he has bad headaches and he believes that a worm inhabits his brain. At times his mind is clear and then it is damned clear. But when he’s crazy, then he is very crazy indeed.”

  “Just like the young lord——” Van Tilema said sharply.

  Berginck smiled affably, while Visser took out a paper; after consulting it he proceeded to read out: “At four o’clock we see a barong at Taman Sari. I asked the raja for that particularly as I was sure it would interest you greatly. Incidentally, the village has had a lot of bad luck, and they hope, by having their barong out——”

  “Barong, barong,” Van Tilema said, searching the well-kept files of his memory and finding no record. “I confess I have forgotten what a barong is,” he said. “Perhaps there wasn’t such a thing in my day.”

  “A speciality of Bali. Possibly they’re not very keen to let us Dutch see it,” the Resident said. “It’s a mix up of trance, magic, kris-dance and all the rest of it. Visser is quite mad about it. Every village has its own barong—a sort of tutelar deity. Anyway, you’ll see for yourself, Commissarius. I must say it’s of more interest than most of the dances they do here.”

  “It occurred to me,” Visser said, carefully picking his words, “that it might not be without a certain significance for the Commissarius to see a kris-dance. We are always in danger of being in error about the Balinese. They are so polite, so gentle, so submissive, with all the reckless gaiety of children. The barong shows one that all this can turn in a trice to cruelty, to frenzy—and it is important to remember that when dealing with the Balinese. Otherwise you may find all at once that you are out in your reckoning.”

  “So even the Controller thinks he can read me a lesson,” Van Tilema remarked to himself with amused annoyance. Then glancing at Visser’s animated, good-natured dog-like face, h
e acknowledged to himself that he meant well and forgave him. “I see—an educational outing,” he said rather tartly. “Fine. It is not lost on me that you have made this arrangement for my especial benefit. If you gendemen will excuse me, I will have a quick bath and change my uniform for this excursion to Taman Sari.”

  “What do you make of our tuan Besar?” Berginck asked his Controller as they crossed the court to the Chinese building, which was this time assigned them as their lodging. Visser was taken aback by this almost tactless familiarity.

  “A well educated man and full of the best intentions. The Balinese are delighted that he speaks their language,” he said discreetly.

  “Yes, yes,” the Resident replied, who himself knew only Malay and Javanese. “But will he pull it off?”

  “I have had a word with the punggawa of Sanur,” Visser said. “His opinion is——”

  “The punggawa is in our pay, you know that as well as I do. His opinion counts for nothing,” the Resident broke in. “But what is your own opinion? You know the Balinese better than any of us. Will Van Tilerna be able at this last hour to turn them from their folly?”

  “The Council of India is against sending soldiers and warships here. Every shell costs lives and money, as every child knows. The Commissarius has an offer in his pocket which amounts to a concession; if Badung pays the seven thousand five hundred guilders as compensation the Government will renounce its claim to the cost of the blockade and all will be forgotten and forgiven. If the lord of Badung does not close with this offer, then I really doubt whether he can be quite right in the head,” the Controller said in conclusion.

  The Resident bit off the end of his cigar as he thought this over. “When you consider the universal love of peace and the reluctance on all sides to fire the first shot, it really makes you wonder where all the wars come from. Got a match for me, my dear Visser?” he asked in the same breath.