He spoke for a long time about the activities of the liberals, politely, but in a tone that rejected and criticized them. At one stage, he accused them of wanting to overturn the situation in the Indies which, he said, was already consolidated, orderly, secure, tranquil and where its people were protected as each day they went about making a living.
“And, Mr. Minke, under the Native kings, your people were never secure, never at peace; there was no legal protection, because indeed there was no law. What hasn’t the Netherlands Indies government done for the people? The liberals indeed have strange ideas about the Indies.”
“But they’re Europeans too,” I said.
On the way home in the buggy, it kept occurring to me how all these conflicts made the situation so complicated. Now we had to add to all this: Pure against Pure. And there was still the position of the Orientals, while Maarten Nijman also wanted humanism, but rejected liberalism. It was turning out that the more one mixed with people the more often different types of issues emerged, ones that I had never dreamed existed, and they were popping up like mushrooms.
Nijman had warned me to be prepared for the present and the future. And, he said, it could be that in the near future Magda Peters might have to leave the Indies. It was not only possible but probable. The rumors were rife and that was taken as an omen. Before such an event actually took place it would be best if I distanced myself from Magda Peters, he said. “Magda Peters may only be ordered to leave the Indies, but you could find yourself in a place that you would never be able to leave.”
Nijman didn’t want to explain the limitations he talked about. Good. I would ask whoever was prepared to answer. Perhaps his words contained some truth, if there were such limitations, and they were real.
At the Telinga’s house there was a letter from Mother and, as was usual, it was written in Javanese language and script.
Gus, everybody has felt both pain and sympathy as they followed your affairs in the papers. You are my manly son. That is all that supports me. As for your own affairs, you yourself must resolve them all. Don’t forget what your Mother has said before: Don’t run! Resolve your affairs well. You remember? If you ever run away from something, your schooling and your education will have been in vain, because my son would then be only a criminal. You are fond of the daughter of this Nyai Ontosoroh? That’s up to you. I only say: Don’t run from your own problems, because to resolve them is your right as a man. Seize the beautiful flowers, because they are there for him who is manly. And don’t become a criminal in affairs of love either—one who conquers a woman with the jingle of coins, the sparkle of wealth and rank. Such a man is also a criminal, while the woman is a prostitute.
I hear too from those who read the Dutch papers that you’ve become a man of letters. Oh, Gus, why do you compose in a language that your mother cannot understand? Write the story of your love in the poetry of your ancestors so that your mother and the whole country may sing them.
Don’t worry about your father, he has a poem of his own.
Ah, beloved Mother. How great a love from me do you deserve! You have never punished me, never passed judgment on this son of yours. Since I was little you have never even pinched me. Now you find no error in my relationship with Annelies. You seek of me that I write in Javanese, a language that you can pronounce with your own tongue. How I have disappointed you, Mother, not being able to write Javanese poems. The rhythm of my life writhes so wildly it could never be forced into the poetry of my ancestors.
My communion with Mother was destroyed by Mrs. Telinga with her usual nagging:
“What about this, Young Master, there may be no shopping done tomorrow,” and that meant that I’d have to produce at least one talen from my pocket.
At Jean Marais’s house I found May asleep on a bed, now equipped with a new mattress but still no sheets. Jean himself was daydreaming. The workshop at the back of the house was rather quiet.
“Jean, tomorrow you can begin painting Mama. It’s best if you paint while she’s doing her correspondence in the office. I’m back at school beginning tomorrow. And May can stay at Wonokromo while you’re painting, Jean.”
“I’ll come, Minke.” His voice still sounded lonely. “I don’t really feel like painting now.”
“It was you that wanted to do it before.”
“She’s so strong, Minke. Her personality is so strong. I admire her, no more so than during the court case. She’s such a determined person, with such vision. I could drown before her.”
What was he trying to say: that he had fallen in love with Mama? Only that he had no way of communicating it?
The Frenchman didn’t say anything more.
“Have you ever suffered because of love, Jean.”
He raised his head and smiled. He asked in return:
“Have you ever heard the life story of the great French painter Toulouse-Lautrec? His immortal paintings now hang on the walls of the Louvre?”
“Of course not.”
“He achieved everything in life.”
“Why, Jean.”
He smiled mysteriously and wouldn’t say.
Still yawning, May climbed up into my lap.
“Have a bath, May. Let’s go to Wonokromo. Tomorrow you can come with me on the way to school.”
“By buggy from Wonokromo?” she asked, her eyes gazing at her father.
Jean Marais nodded in confirmation.
“You too, Jean. No need to wait for tomorrow. Let’s go now.”
The three of us departed. The buggy was very crammed.
And in the evening, with Jean Marais as a witness, it was decided: Annelies and I were to marry as soon as I passed the H.B.S. exams.
The world and my heart greeted each other in peace.
18
The graduation party was also a party within a party.
For three months I studied and studied and that’s all I did. I didn’t do any work for Jean. Studied and studied. And in the meantime my life had been restored to something like it was earlier.
I would be allowed to socialize once again with the other students at the graduation ceremony. I would be a real part of the student body again—even though only briefly. We would all soon be embarking on our separate journeys into that unlimited life before us.
The parents and guardians sat in rows, all of them: Pures, Indos, several Chinese, and not a single Native.
Mama refused to attend, so I came with Annelies. And it was the first time she had left the house to attend a party. She wore her favorite black velvet dress with a three-stringed pearl necklace, a brilliant bejewelled medallion, and bracelets. And there could be no doubt: She now rivaled the Queen in both natural beauty and her adorned appearance.
Like all the other students who were to receive their diplomas, I wore white clothes like the civil servants, except without the yellow buttons with the letter W for Wilhelmina on them.
The two of us entered the hall, where we were greeted by Magda Peters dressed in her formal clothes. She greeted Annelies with great enthusiasm.
“Prima donna! You are the queen of the party!”
With all eyes on her, Annelies did not refuse to be escorted to sit amongst the audience. Both girls and boys turned around to see my queen. Now they knew: The world had become my kingdom, and I had seized it without a duel. I sought out Robert Suurhof so he would have no chance to hide his face. Instead it was Jan Dapperste who came into view, waving his hand. I replied with a nod.
Sitting in the chair there, I remembered Mother. How glorious it would have been if she could have witnessed her son accepting his H.B.S. diploma. That noble woman was not present. And I felt an emptiness in the merriment and the grandness of the occasion.
The hubbub turned to silence. “Wilhelmus” boomed out as everyone joined in singing under the witness of the Tricolors: flags and ribbons. Then the director spoke briefly. He congratulated those who had graduated and wished them well as they set off on their brilliant careers, and he prayed
for the greatest success for everyone. To those who would continue their studies in the Netherlands at university, he wished them happy sailing and prayed that they would become good scholars, of use to the Netherlands and the Indies and the World.
The European inspector of teaching did not speak.
Then the program moved on to calling up those who had passed the 1899 state exams. The teachers were standing in a row behind the director.
Stillness and tension.
“At the close of this school year, approaching the close of the nineteenth century, of the forty-five pupils who sat for the state exams in the Indies, the one who came first was from H.B.S. Batavia. Eleven failed and have been asked to repeat. The graduate with the second best score is from Surabaya, which means he was first in Surabaya.”
Everyone cheered loyally.
I guessed that each student’s heart was palpitating as he imagined himself as number two in all the Indies and number one in Surabaya. Even I had dreamed of it.
“Graduating second in all of the Indies, first in Surabaya, the student’s name is . . . Min-ke.”
I shook. I had no idea. In fact no one ever imagined that a Native could beat Europeans. Such an idea was taboo in the Indies.
“Minke!” called the director.
I still couldn’t stand. My fellow students on each side of me forced themselves to help me get up.
“Minke!” called out Magda Peters, waving.
And so I stood up; my legs were still unsteady. Everyone would no doubt witness this pathetic condition I was in. There was no more applause supporting me, only because the person called up was a Native. Even the teachers didn’t applaud. Then came some weak clapping. It was easy to guess who: Miss Magda Peters. Perhaps even Annelies didn’t clap. She had never participated in this type of gathering before. She was probably sitting there completely dumbfounded—that child who’d never mixed socially—like the child of a mountain.
I went up on the stage and received the diploma and the congratulations. My hand shook visibly.
“Steady, Minke,” the director whispered.
Slowly I walked back to my seat, accompanied by the weak clapping of the teachers, and then that of a few students, and then of some of the audience.
Number five after me was Robert Suurhof. Last was Jan Dapperste. When Jan returned to his seat, there appeared from amongst the audience Preacher Dapperste, a Pure, who greeted Jan with an intimate embrace. The preacher’s wife too. If Annelies had understood what this was all about, she would have done likewise. She didn’t.
The party began. First and second class were to put on a Bible play; it was called David and Bathsheba, and was produced by one of the teachers.
Audience and students sat together now. Annelies was beside me.
Before the play began, the director came up to me and gave me a telegram from B: Congratulations on passing the state exam second in the Indies, from Miriam, Sarah, and Herbert de la Croix. It seemed that they knew my results before me, the person it affected. The director shook hands with Annelies and was very friendly. Even so I was tense and anxious, afraid that he still might let fly some insult, openly or not. But no, he didn’t insult her. It seemed he greeted her sincerely.
“Would sir accept our invitation to you, the other teachers, and the students to attend our wedding party next Wednesday? At seven in the evening?”
“So fast?” Once again he shook hands with us.
Annelies responded to his congratulations coldly. And if I recalled Dr. Martinet’s explanation, I could understand why.
He shook me vigorously by the hand and then clapped merrily so that people looked around at us.
“May I announce it in a moment?”
“Thank you, sir, of course, as an official spoken invitation.”
“Why no printed invitations?”
“Well, sir, after our past experiences . . .”
Magda Peters, who sat listening, also shook hands with us, without comment. I don’t know what she was thinking. At the very least her eyes weren’t blinking fast.
The director went again. It was announced that scene one was about to begin. Slowly the curtain rose. Spread out before us was a stony landscape where later (perhaps) Bathsheba would bathe and where David would glimpse her body. But Bathsheba still didn’t appear even though the curtain was fully raised. Nor the Prophet David. People began to stretch their necks forward, looking for the beautiful Bathsheba. Instead, out of the stony landscape there appeared the director, smiling and taking off his bow tie.
The whole gathering burst into hearty laughter. The director couldn’t help but burst into a big grin also. So this unrobed, unturbanned David (but one who did wear a bow tie) apologized, but he said there was something he had to do. It would diminish his announcement’s significance if it was done after the performance. Then he announced our invitation.
“Invitees besides teachers, students, and graduates? There aren’t any.”
There was scattered laughter.
“On behalf of all those who may not be able to attend, perhaps because they’ll be returning quickly to their own regions or because they already have plans, as director of the Surabaya H.B.S. I wish to congratulate the bride- and groom-to-be and pray that they will live happily forever. Thank you.”
And he descended from the stage passing Bathsheba, who was sneaking a look from behind the curtain.
* * *
Our wedding party, which we had planned to be a simple affair, turned into something much grander as a result of the sudden invitation announced at the graduation. Nyai approved. She was very happy to hear Annelies’s report of how it was announced.
“This party will also celebrate your victory in the examination, child. Despite facing so many trials, you still passed brilliantly. You overcame all trials.”
A few days before the ceremony, Mother arrived. She was the only representative of my family. Nyai greeted her joyfully, as if they were old friends. Mother quickly came to love Annelies, her future daughter-in-law. It was as if she could not bear to be far from her and never grew tired of staring in admiration at her beauty.
“Ya, Sis,” she said to Nyai, the future mother-in-law of her son, “a child so beautiful, like Nawangwulan. Perhaps even more beautiful than Banowati. Ya Allah, Sis, I never guessed, I never thought that Sis would take my son as your son-in-law. Neither in this world or the next will I ever forget it, Sis.”
“Yes, Sis they love each other. Only I ask your forgiveness because my child has no race, stems from a . . .”
“Ah, Sis, if a girl is as beautiful as this, she already has everything.”
In the evening Mother whispered to me:
“Gus, you’re truly fortunate to have obtained a wife so beautiful. In your ancestors’ time a woman as beautiful as that would spark a great war.”
“Does Mother think I did not go to war to win her?”
“Ah, yes, yes . . . you’re right, Gus, and of course your victory was glorious.”
We were married according to Islam. Darsam acted as witness and as guardian to Annelies as stipulated in Islamic Law. It took place at exactly nine o’clock in the morning. As was the custom, and with feelings of gratitude, we both knelt and made obeisance to Mother and Mama.
Tears poured forth from both of them as they accepted our obeisance and they blessed us with halting words. And Annelies cried also. Perhaps she felt there was something missing because there was no father present to share in the happiness of the day. Perhaps.
Mother and Mama put their arms around each other’s shoulders, gazed at each other with tear-filled eyes, and embraced. To be moved to tears that way is humanity’s purest emotion. Such emotion also means pain, hurt in one’s psyche, because people come face to face with their own birth as humans, naked and bare of all pretension and civilization.
A small feast followed; then afterwards the real party.
For the inhabitants of all the company villages, our marriage meant a big feast. The
paddy-drying area was turned into a big covered pavilion. Everyone was given a holiday with full pay. The herdsmen who couldn’t leave their work received triple pay. Five young calves were slaughtered. Three hundred chickens met their end. Two thousand and twenty-five eggs. The whole of the day’s milk production was surrendered to the kitchen. Every company carriage, whether being used or not, was decorated with multicolored paper.
Never had the inhabitants of Wonokromo witnessed so big a wedding party.
Annelies once told me: Mama will give me anything I ask for at this wedding party. And she said also: She wants to see as many people as possible around her child sharing in the joy. So she would never regret it all her life.
Neither Annelies nor Mama wanted any dowry. “What more do we wish for?” said Mama. Annelies had already got everything from her future husband. If there had to be a dowry, said Annelies, it is something I haven’t yet got from him: his promise of faithfulness while ever I live. And I gave it to her during the marriage ceremony.
* * *
At five in the afternoon, there was a knock on my door. Jan Dapperste entered. He was well dressed in an old-fashioned style.
“Forgive me, Minke, if I’ve come too early. I’ve come early on purpose so I can help.” He then sat down as if he hadn’t been acquainted with a single chair for the last fifteen years.
In a complaining tone, he continued, “You’re indeed a child of May, you’ve got everything you’ve ever wanted. You succeed in everything you do. A few more years and you will be a bupati.”
“You’re talking some ill-starred child lamenting his fate.”
“You’re not wrong. I’ve run away from Papa and Mama. After the ship set sail for Europe, I jumped overboard and swam ashore. An adopted child who doesn’t know how well off he is . . .”
“I’ve heard you curse yourself like that at least three times now.”
“I’m sorry, especially on this, such a happy day for you. It’s not proper. I’m sorry. Help me, Minke. I don’t want to leave Java. I’m not Dutch, not Indo.”
This Earth of Mankind Page 33