“Why should I attach any value to life, when I may be dead tomorrow?” thought Eva. “Why all that human entanglement and bustle, when we all may be dead tomorrow?…”
She told him. He replied that individuals did not live for themselves and their own present time, but for all human beings and for the future… But she laughed bitterly, shrugged her shoulders, and found him trite. She found herself trite, too, thinking such things, which had been thought so often before. Yet, despite her self-criticism, she remained oppressed by her obsession with the pointlessness of life, when everything might cease to exist tomorrow. A humiliating sense of atomic smallness overcame both of them as they sat there, looking at the vast skies and eternal starlight.
Yet they loved those moments, which meant everything to them, since when they were not too aware of their smallness, they talked about books, music, art and the bigger things in life. They felt that despite the subscription library and the Italian opera in Surabaya, they were no longer in touch. They felt that the great, exalted things were very far removed from them, and they were seized, both of them, by a homesickness for Europe, a desire no longer to feel so small. They would have both liked to go away, to Europe, but neither of them could. They were trapped by humdrum everyday life. Then, almost automatically, in perfect harmony, they talked about the soul and the essence of things and its great mystery.
All its mystery. They could feel it from the sea, in the air, but secretly they also sought it in the dancing leg of a table. They could not understand how a spirit or soul could reveal itself through a table on which they earnestly placed their hands, and through which the energy passing through was transformed from something dead to something alive. But when they placed their hands on it, the table did come alive, and they couldn’t help believing. The letters that they counted sometimes came out in a confused form in a strange alphabet, as if directed by a mocking spirit intending constantly to tease and confuse, suddenly to stop and become coarse and filthy. They read books about spiritualism together, and weren’t sure whether to believe or not.
These were silent days — silent, monotonous days — in the town, where rain gushed everywhere. Their life together seemed unreal, like a dream that wove through the rain like a mist. And for Eva it was like a sudden awakening when one afternoon, walking outside down the damp avenue and waiting for Van Helderen, she saw Van Oudijck approaching.
“I was just on my way to see you, dear lady!” he said excitedly. “I wanted to ask you something. Will you help me again?”
“With what, Commissioner?”
“But first tell me, are you not well? You don’t look well at the moment.”
“It’s nothing serious,” she said with a flat laugh. “It will pass. What can I do for you, Commissioner?”
“Something has got to be done, dear lady, and we can’t do without you. My wife said only this morning: ask Mrs Eldersma…”
“What is it?”
“You know Mrs Staats, the wife of the stationmaster who passed away? The poor woman has been left with nothing, just her five children and a few debts.”
“He committed suicide, didn’t he?”
“Yes. It’s a very sad case. We must help her. We need a large sum. Circulating lists won’t produce much. People are generous enough, but recently they’ve made such a lot of sacrifices. At the gala they went crazy. They won’t have a lot to give now at the end of the month. But at the beginning of next month, January, dear lady, there’ll be a production by Thalia. Very quick, a couple of drawing-room pieces, without great overheads. Tickets at one guilder fifty or two-fifty, and if you organize it, the house will be full and they will come from Surabaya. You must help me dear lady. You will, won’t you?”
“But Commissioner,” said Eva wearily. “We’ve just had the tableaux vivants. Don’t be angry, but I don’t feel like playacting all the time.”
“Yes, yes, you must…” Oudijck insisted rather imperiously, excited about his plan.
She became peevish. She liked her independence and particularly in these days of depression she was too gloomy, in these dreamlike days she felt too woolly to accede sweetly and at once to the request from on high.
“Really, Commissioner, I can’t think of anything this time,” she answered abruptly. “Why doesn’t Mrs Van Oudijck do it herself?…”
She startled herself by saying that peevishly. As he walked next to her, he became upset and his face darkened. The excited, cheerful look, the jovial laugh around his thick moustache had suddenly disappeared. She saw that she had been cruel and regretted it. And for the first time she realized that however much in love he might be with his wife, he did not approve of her shirking all her duties.
He was lost for an answer, and as he hunted for words, she was silent.
Then she said, in a sweet tone: “Don’t be angry, Commissioner. That wasn’t very kind of me. I know very well that Mrs Van Oudijck doesn’t like that kind of thing. I’m happy to take it off her hands. I shall do whatever you want.”
She was so nervous that her eyes filled with tears.
Smiling now, he gave her a quizzical sideways look.
“How on edge you are. But I knew that your heart was in the right place, and you wouldn’t let me down with my plan, and would want to help poor Mrs Staats. But nothing too expensive, dear lady, no lavish expenditure, and no new scenery. Just your wit, your talent, your beautiful diction in French or Dutch — whatever you want. We’re proud of that in Labuwangi, and all those wonderful things — which you will provide free of charge — will be quite enough to make the performance a success. But how nervous you are, dear lady. Why are you crying? Are you not well? Tell me if there is anything I can do for you.”
“Don’t give my husband so much work, Commissioner. I scarcely ever see him.”
He made a gesture of helplessness.
“It’s true, it’s terribly busy,” he admitted. “Is that the heart of the matter?”
“Show me the good things about the Indies.”
“Is that the problem?”
“And lots more besides…”
“Are you homesick? Don’t you like the Indies any more, don’t you care for Labuwangi, where we all think the world of you?… You’ve got the wrong idea about the Indies. Try to see the good side.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Is it no use any longer?”
“No…”
“You’re too sensible not to see the good things about this country.”
“You’re too fond of the country to be impartial. And I can’t be impartial either. But tell me the good things.”
“Where shall I begin? The good that we can do as officials for the country and its people, and the satisfaction we derive from it. The wonderful, marvellous work we do for the country and its people; the great amount of hard work that fills a whole life here… I’m not talking about all the office work of your husband, who is a secretary, I’m talking of later on, when he is an assistant commissioner!”
“How much longer will that be?…”
“And what about the comfortable life here then?”
“That the white ants gnaw away at.”
“That’s a cheap joke, madam.”
“That may be, Commissioner. Everything is out of tune in and around me. My cleverness, my piano, and my poor soul.”
“What about nature then?”
“It makes me feel so insignificant. Nature overwhelms me and consumes me.”
“Your work?”
“My work… one of the good things in the Indies…”
“Yes. The work of occasionally inspiring us humdrum people with your wit.”