BOOK IV
1
OVERALL, LIFE HAD BEEN KIND to Van Oudijck. Born into a simple Dutch family with no money, he had spent his youth at a harsh, though never cruel, school. Serious from an early age, he had worked hard from the outset, looking towards the distant future, to a career, to the honourable position he was eager to assume as soon as possible among his fellow men. His time as a student of colonial administration in Delft had been fun enough for him to feel that he had once been young, and because he had once taken part in a masquerade, he actually believed that he had had a very wild youth, squandering money and painting the town red. His character was composed of a great deal of quiet Dutch solidity, a generally somewhat sombre and dreary earnestness, intellectual and practicaclass="underline" used to seeking his rightful place in human society, his ambition had developed rhythmically and steadily into a temperate professional ambition, but had developed only along the lines his eye tended to focus on — the hierarchical line of the Colonial Service. Things had always gone his way: his considerable capacities won him considerable esteem, he had become an assistant commissioner earlier than most and a commissioner at a young age, and his ambition had actually already been satisfied, since his position of authority was in complete harmony with his nature, whose desire for power had kept pace with its ambition. He was actually quite content, and although his eye saw much further and he glimpsed a seat on the Council of the Indies, and even the governor general’s throne, there were days when, serious and contented, he maintained that becoming a commissioner first class — besides the higher pension — had little to commend it except at Samarang and Surabaya, but East Java was very troublesome, Batavia had such an odd and almost diminished position, amid so many senior officials, members of the Council of the Indies and heads of department. And so, although he kept one eye on possible preferment, his practical and moderate nature would have been quite satisfied if someone had been able to predict that he would die as commissioner of Labuwangi. He loved his district and he loved the Indies; he felt no nostalgia for Holland or the trappings of European civilization, and yet he himself remained extremely Dutch, with a particular hatred for anything mixed-race. This was the contradiction in his character, since he had married his first, Eurasian wife purely out of love, and he loved his children, whose Indies blood was clearly apparent — outwardly with Doddy, inwardly with Theo, while René and Ricus were thoroughgoing young Eurasians — with a pronounced paternal love, full of the latent tenderness and sentimentality hidden deep inside: a need to give and receive in the bosom of the family. Gradually this need had extended to the circle of his district: he took a paternal pride in his assistant district commissioners and controllers, among whom he was popular and liked; only once in the six years that he had been district commissioner of Labuwangi had he been unable to work with a controller, a half-caste, whom after a period of patience with the man and with himself he’d had him transferred, or had fired him as he put it. And he was proud that, despite his authoritarian regime, despite his strict insistence on hard work, he was popular among his staff. He was all the more distressed by that mysterious, persistent enmity with the Prince, his “younger brother” according to Javanese titulature, in whom he would have liked to find a real younger brother, who under his tutelage governed his Javanese population. It pained him that this was his lot, and he thought of other princes, not only the noble pangéran, but others that he knew: the Prince of D—, educated, speaking and writing pure Dutch, the author of crystal-clear Dutch articles in newspapers and magazines; the Prince of S—, a little frivolous and vain but an extremely wealthy benefactor, a dandy in European society, gallant with the ladies. Why was he in Labuwangi saddled with this silent, angry, secretly fanatical shadow puppet, with his reputation as a saint and a magician, stupidly idolized by the people, in whose welfare he took no interest and who worshipped him only because of the prestige of his ancient name, and in whom he, Van Oudijck, always felt a resistance to his authority, never openly expressed but tangible beneath the Prince’s icy correctness. And on top of that, the brother in Ngajiwa, the card-player, the gambler — what had he done to deserve such princes?
Van Oudijck was in a gloomy frame of mind. He was used to receiving occasional, regular anonymous letters, slanders spat out poisonously from quiet corners — one defaming an assistant district commissioner, another a controller, then smearing the native chiefs or his own family — sometimes in the form of a friendly warning, sometimes in that of vicious schadenfreude, wishing mainly to open his eyes to the shortcomings of his officials and the misdemeanour of his wife.
He was so used to these uncountable letters, which he read fleetingly, if at all, then tore them up without the slightest concern. Since he was used to making up his own mind, the spiteful warnings made no impression on him, however much they reared their heads, like hissing snakes among all the letters that arrived daily in the post. And he’d always had such a blind spot for his wife. He had continued to see Léonie in the serenity of her smiling indifference and in the circle of domestic warmth that she certainly created around her — in the cavernous emptiness of the commissioner’s mansion that with its chairs and ottomans seemed constantly arranged for receptions — that he could never believe one jot of those slanders. He never talked about them. He loved his wife devotedly, and since in company he always saw her virtually silent, since she never flirted or behaved coquettishly, he never caught a glimpse of the depravity of her soul. In fact, he was quite blind in domestic matters. At home he had the kind of utter blindness that so often afflicts men who are extremely knowledgeable and competent in their business or professional life, eagle-eyed at work but myopic at home; used to analysing things en masse, and not the details of an individual soul; whose knowledge of humanity is based on principle, and who divides human beings into types, as if casting an old-fashioned play; who can immediately assess the work capacity of their subordinates, but who have no inkling of the psychological complexity of the members of their household, with its intertwined, tangled arabesques like overgrown vines — constantly looking over their heads, constantly missing the inner meaning of their words, with no interest in the multicoloured emotions of hate, envy and love unfolding rainbow-like before their very eyes. He loved his wife and he loved his children, because of his need for paternal feelings, for fatherhood, but he knew neither his wife nor his children. He knew nothing about Léonie and had never suspected that Theo and Doddy had secretly remained faithful to their mother, so far away in Batavia, living in unspeakable degradation, and had no love for him. He believed that they did love him, and when he thought about them, it aroused a dormant tenderness in him.
He received the poison-pen letters every day. They had never made any impression on him, but recently he no longer tore them up, but read them carefully and put them away in a secret drawer. Why, he could not have said. They were accusations against his wife, smears against his daughter. They were alarmist suggestions that he might be stabbed in the dark. They were warnings that his spies were totally unreliable. They told him that his rejected wife was living in poverty and hated him; they told him that he had a son whose existence he had ignored. They quietly rummaged about in all the dark, secret areas of his life and work. Despite himself, he felt depressed by them. It was all vague and he had nothing to reproach himself with. For himself and for the world he was a good official, a good husband and a good father, a good person. The fact that he was accused of having judged unfairly here, of having acted cruelly and unfairly there, of having rejected his first wife, of having an unacknowledged son living in the native quarters, the fact that people were slinging mud at Theo and Doddy — all this was making him gloomy at present. Because it was incomprehensible that anyone should behave in this way. For this practically minded man it was the vagueness that was most irritating. He would not fear an open conflict, but this shadow-boxing played on his nerves and his health. He had no inkling of why it was happening. There was nothing tangible. He could not picture the face of an enemy. And every day the letters came, and every day there was hostility in the shadows around him. It was too mystical for someone like him and was bound to make him bitter and gloomy. Then there appeared in the local newspapers pieces originating from a small, hostile press, accusations that were vague or demonstrably untrue. Hatred bubbled up everywhere. He could not think why, and pondering on the question was making him ill. He talked to no one about it and hid his pain deep inside.