CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The subscription-lists went round. The plays were rehearsed andperformed in three weeks' time; and the committee handed the residenta sum of nearly fifteen hundred guilders for Mother Staats. Her debtswere paid; a little house was rented for her; and she was set up in asmall milliner's shop, which Eva stocked from Paris. All the ladiesin Labuwangi gave Mother Staats an order; and in less than a monthnot only was the woman saved from utter ruin, but her mode of lifewas established, her children were going to school again and she wasenjoying a pleasant livelihood. All this had happened so swiftly andunostentatiously; the subscriptions were so munificent; the ladiesso readily ordered a dress or a hat which they did not need that Evawas astounded. And she had to confess to herself that the egoism, theself-absorption, the unlovable qualities which she often observed intheir social life--in their intercourse, conversation, intriguing andgossip--had been suddenly thrust into the background by a common giftfor doing the right thing, quite simply, because it had to be done,because there was no question about it, because the woman had to beassisted. Roused from her depression by the bustle of the rehearsals,stimulated to brisk action, she appreciated the better and finer sideof her environment and wrote of it so enthusiastically to Hollandthat her parents, to whom India was a closed book, smiled. But,although this episode had awakened a soft and gentle and appreciativefeeling in her, it was only an episode; and she remained the samewhen the emotion of it was over. And, notwithstanding that she feltthe disapproval of Labuwangi around her, she continued to find themain interest of her life in Van Helderen's friendship.
For there was so little else. Her little circle of adherents, whichshe had gathered round her with so many illusions, which she invitedto dinner, to which her doors were always open: what did it actuallyamount to? She now accepted the Doorn de Bruijns and the Rantzows asindifferent acquaintances, but no longer as friends. She suspectedMrs. Doorn de Bruijn of insincerity; Dr. Rantzow was too common,too vulgar; his wife was an insignificant German Hausfrau. True, theyjoined in the table-turning, but they relished the absurd ineptitudes,the indecent conversation of the mocking spirit. She and Van Helderentook the whole thing seriously, though she thought the table rathercomical. And so no one but Van Helderen remained to interest her.
But Van Oudijck had won her admiration. She had suddenly obtained aglimpse of his character; and, though it entirely lacked the artisticcharm which had hitherto exclusively attracted her in men, she sawthe fine quality also in this man, who was not at all artistic, whohad not the least conception of art, but who had so much that wasbeautiful in his simple, manly idea of duty and in the calmness withwhich he endured the disappointment of his domestic life. For Evasaw that, though he adored his wife, he did not approve of Leonie'sindifference to all the interests of which his own life was builtup. If he saw nothing more, if he was blind to all the rest that wenton in his domestic circle, this disappointment was his secret pain,to which he was not blind, deep down in himself.
And she admired him; and her admiration was as it were a revelationthat art does not always stand highest in the affairs of this life. Shesuddenly understood that the exaggerated importance attaching to artin our time was a disease from which she had suffered and was stillsuffering. For what was she, what did she do? Nothing. Her parents,both of them, were great artists, true artists; and their house waslike a temple and their bias was comprehensible and pardonable. Butwhat of her? She played the piano pretty well; and that was all. Shehad a few ideas, a little taste; and that was all. But in her timeshe had gushed with other girls; and she now remembered all thatfoolish gushing, that trick of exchanging letters crammed with cheapphilosophy and written in a modern style distantly aping that ofthe poets Kloos and Gorter. And thus, for all her depression, hermeditation carried her a stage further and she underwent a certaindevelopment. For it seemed incredible that she, the child of herparents, should not always place art above everything else.
And she had in her that play and counterplay of seeking and thinking inorder to find her way, now that she was quite lost in a country aliento her nature, among people on whom she looked down, without lettingthem perceive it. She strove to find the good in the country, in orderto make it her own and cherish it; she was glad to find among thepeople those few who roused her sympathy and her admiration; but thegood remained incidental to her, the few people remained exceptional;and, despite all her seeking and thinking, she did not find her way andretained the moodiness of a woman who was too European, too artistic,notwithstanding her self-knowledge and her consequent denial of herartistic capacity, to live quietly and contentedly in an up-countryJavanese town, beside a husband wrapped up in his office-work,in a climate that upset her health, amid natural surroundings thatoverwhelmed her and among people whom she disliked.
And, in the most lucid moments of this play and counterplay, therewas the obvious fear, the fear which she felt most definitely of all,the fear which she felt slowly approaching, she knew not whence,she knew not whither, but hovering over her head as with the thousandveils of a fate gliding through the sultry, rain-laden skies....
In these inharmonious moods, she had refrained from gathering herlittle clique around her, for she herself did not care to take thetrouble and her friends did not understand her well enough to seek herout. They missed the cheerfulness in her which had attracted them atfirst. Envy and hostility were now given more rein; people began tospeak freely of her: she was affected, pedantic, vain, proud; she hadthe pretention always to aim at being the leading person in the town;she behaved just as though she were the resident's wife and orderedevery one about. She was not really pretty, she had an impossibleway of dressing, her house was preposterously arranged. And then herrelation with Van Helderen, their evening walks to the light-house! Idaheard about it at Tosari, amid the band of gossips at the small,poky hotel, where the visitors are bored when they are not going onexcursions and therefore sit about in their poky little verandahs,almost in one another's pockets, peeping into one another's rooms,listening at the thin partitions; Ida heard about it at Tosari and itwas enough to rouse the little Indian woman's instincts, the instinctsof a white half-caste, and induce her suddenly, without stating anycause, to remove her children from Eva's charge. Van Helderen, when hewent up for the week-end, asked his wife for an explanation, asked herwhy she insulted Eva by taking the children away, without a reason,and having them up in the hills, thus increasing the hotel-bills. Idamade a scene, talking loudly, with hysterics that rang through thelittle hotel, made all the visitors prick up their ears and, likea gale of wind, whipped the cackling chatter into a storm. And,without further explanation, Ida broke with Eva.
Eva withdrew into herself. Even in Surabaya, where she went to dosome shopping, she heard the scandalous chatter; and she becameso sick of her world and her friends that she silently shrank backinto herself. She wrote to Van Helderen not to call any more. Sheentreated him to become reconciled with his wife. She gave up seeinghim. And she was now all alone. She felt that she was not in themood to find comfort in any one around her. There was no sympathyand no understanding in India for such moods as hers. And so she shutherself up. Her husband was working hard, as usual. But she devotedherself more zealously to her little boy, she immersed herself inher love for her child. She withdrew herself into her love for herhouse. Well, this was her life of never going out, of never seeing anyone, of never hearing any other music than her own. This was seekingcomfort in her house, her child and her books. This was the personalitythat she had become, after her early illusions and strivings. She nowconstantly felt the yearning for Europe, for Holland, for her parents,for people of artistic culture. And now it developed into hatred forthe country which she had at first seen in the overwhelming grandeurof its beauty, with its majestic mountains and the softly-creepingmystery that lurked in nature and humanity. Now she hated nature andhumanity; and their mystery terrified her.
She filled her life with thoughts of her child. Her boy, little Otto,was three year
s old. She would guide him, make a man of him. From theday of his birth she had had vague illusions of later seeing her sona great artist, by preference a great writer, famous throughout theworld. But she had learnt much since then. She felt that art doesnot always stand supreme. She felt that there are higher things,which sometimes, in her despondency, she denied, but which were therenevertheless, radiant and great. These things had to do with theshaping of the future; these things had to do above all with peace,justice and brotherhood. Oh, the great brotherhood of the poor andthe rich! Now, in her loneliness, she contemplated this as the highestideal at which one can work, as sculptors work on a monument. Justiceand peace would follow. But human brotherhood must be aimed at first;and she wished her son to work at it. Where? In Europe? In India? Shedid not know; she did not see it before her. She saw it in Europerather than in India, where the inexplicable, the enigmatical, thefearful remained in the foreground of her thoughts. How strange it was,how strange!...
She was a woman made for ideals. Perhaps this by itself was the simpleexplanation of what she felt and feared ... in India....
"Your impressions of India are altogether mistaken," her husbandwould say. "You see India quite wrongly. Quiet? You think it's quiethere? Why should I have to work so hard in India, if things were quietat Labuwangi?... We have hundreds of interests at heart, of Europeansand Javanese alike. Agriculture is studied as eagerly in this countryas anywhere. The population is increasing steadily.... Declining? Acolony in which there is always so much going on? That's one ofVan Helderen's imbecile ideas: speculative ideas, mere vapourings,which you just echo after him.... I can't understand the way in whichyou regard India nowadays.... There was a time when you had eyes forall that was beautiful and interesting here. That time seems to bepast. You ought to go home for a bit, really...."
But she knew that he would be very lonely without her; and for thisreason she refused to go. Later, when her boy was older, she wouldhave to go to Holland. But by then Eldersma would certainly be anassistant-resident. At present he still had seventeen controllersand district secretaries above him. It had been going on like thisfor years, that looking towards promotion in the distant future. Itwas like yearning after a mirage. Of ever becoming a resident he didnot so much as think. Assistant-resident for a couple of years or so;and then to Holland, on a pension....
She thought it a heart-breaking existence, slaving one's self todeath like that ... for Labuwangi!...
She was down with malaria; and her maid, Saina, was giving her massage,kneading her aching limbs with supple fingers.
"It's a nuisance, Saina, when I'm ill, for you to be living in thecompound. You'd better move into the house this evening, with yourfour children."
Saina thought it troublesome, a great fuss.
"Why?"
And the woman explained. Her cottage had been left to her byher husband. She was attached to it, though it was in an utterlydilapidated condition. Now that the rainy monsoon was on, the rainoften came in through the roof; and then she was unable to cook andthe children had to go without their food. To have it repaired wasdifficult. She had a rix-dollar a week from the mem-sahib. Sixty centsof that went on rice. Then there were a few cents daily for fish,coconut oil, betel-pepper; a few cents for fuel.... No, repairs wereout of the question. She would be much better off with the mem-sahib,much better off on the estate. But it would be such a fuss to finda tenant for the cottage, because it was so dilapidated; and themem-sahib knew that no house was allowed to remain unoccupied in thecompound: there was a heavy fine attached to that.... So she wouldrather go on living in her damp cottage. She could easily stay andsit up with the mem-sahib at night; her eldest girl would look afterthe little ones.
And, resigned to her small existence of petty miseries, Saina passedher supple fingers, with a firm, gentle pressure, over her mistress'ailing limbs.
And Eva thought it heart-rending, this living on a rix-dollar a week,with four children, in a house which let in the rain, so that it wasimpossible to cook there.
"Let me look after your second little daughter, Saina," said Eva,a day or two after.
Saina hesitated, smiled: she would rather not, but dared not say so.
"Yes," Eva insisted, "let her come to me: you will see her all daylong; she will sleep in cook's room; I shall provide her clothes;and she will have nothing to do but to see that my room is kepttidy. You can teach her that."
"So young still, mem-sahib; only just ten."
"No, no," Eva insisted. "Let me do this to help you. What's her name?"
"Mina, mem-sahib."
"Mina? That won't do," said Eva. "That's the seamstress' name. We'llfind another for her."
Saina brought the child, looking very shy, with a streak of moistrice-powder on her forehead; and Eva dressed her prettily. She was avery attractive little thing, with a soft brown skin covered with adowny bloom, and looked charming in her new clothes. She sedulouslypiled the sarongs in the press, with fragrant white flowers betweenthe layers: the flowers were changed for fresh ones daily. For a joke,because she arranged the flowers so prettily, Eva called her Melati,after the East-Indian jasmine.
Two days later, Saina crouched down before her njonja.
"What is it, Saina?"
Might the little girl come back to the damp cottage in thecompound? Saina asked.
"Why?" asked Eva, in amazement. "Isn't your little girl happy here?"
Yes, she was, said Saina, bashfully, but she preferred the cottage. Themem-sahib was very kind, but little Mina would rather be in thecottage.
Eva was angry and let the child go home, with the new clothes, whichSaina took away with her as a matter of course.
"Why wasn't the child allowed to stay?" Eva asked of the latta cook.
Cook at first dared not say.
"Come, cook, why wasn't she?" asked Eva, insisting.
"Because the mem-sahib called the little girl Melati.... Namesof flowers and fruits ... are given only ... to dancing-girls,"explained the cook, as though expounding a mystery.
"But why didn't Saina tell me?" asked Eva, greatly incensed. "I hadnot the least idea of that!"
"Too shy," said cook, by way of excusing Saina. "Beg pardon,mem-sahib."
These were trivial incidents in the daily domestic life, littleepisodes of her housekeeping; but they made her feel sore, becauseshe felt behind them as it were a wall that always existed betweenher and the people and things of India. She did not know the country,she would never know the people.
And the minor disappointment of the episodes filled her with the samesoreness as the greater disappointment of her illusions, because herlife, amid the daily trivialities of her housekeeping, was itselfbecoming more and more trivial.