F
OURTEEN MILES FROM LABUWANGI
, and thirteen miles from Ngajiwa, lay the Pajaram sugar factory, belonging to the De Luce family—half Creole, half Solo in origin—once millionaires, no longer as rich as they were because of the recent sugar crisis, but still maintaining a large household. This indissoluble family comprised: an old mother and grandmother, a Solo princess; the eldest son, an administrator; three married daughters and their
husbands
—employed as clerks in the business—who lived in the shadow of the factory; the numerous grandchildren playing close to the factory; the great-grandchildren germinating close to the factory. In this family old Indies traditions were preserved, which—once universal—are today becoming rarer because of more intensive contact with Europeans. The mother and grandmother was the daughter of a Solo prince, who had married a young, energetic adventurer and bohemian, Ferdinand de Luce, the scion of a noble family from Mauritius, who, after some years of roaming and
searching
for his niche in the world, had sailed to the Indies as a steward on board a ship, and after all kinds of vicissitudes had been stranded in Solo, where he won fame for a tomato
dish and one of stuffed peppers! Ferdinand de Luce’s cooking gained him access to the Prince of Solo, whose daughter he later married, and even to the old Susuhunan. After his marriage he became a landowner, according to Solo law a vassal of the Susuhunan, to whom he sent a daily tribute of rice and fruit for the Palace household. Then he had gone into sugar, guessing the millions that a favourable destiny had in store for him. He had died before the crisis, wealthy and universally honoured.
The old grandmother, who had retained nothing of the young princess who had married Ferdinand de Luce for social advancement, was invariably approached with servile respect by the servants and the Javanese staff of the factory, and everyone gave her the title of
radèn-ayu pangéran
. She spoke not a word of Dutch. As wrinkled as a shrivelled fruit, with her cloudy eyes and withered, betel-stained mouth, she lived out her last years peacefully, always in a dark silk jacket, with a jewelled fastening at the neck and tight sleeves. Before her dimmed eyes flickered the vision of the former palatial greatness she had abandoned for the love of that aristocratic French cook, who had delighted her father’s taste buds with his recipes; her poor hearing caught the constant muffled whoosh of the centrifuges—like ships’ propellers—during the milling of the sugar cane, which lasted for months. Around her were her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren; the sons and daughters called radèn and
radèn-ayeng
, all of them still surrounded by the pale aura of their Solo origins. The eldest daughter had married a
full-blooded, blond Dutchman; the son who followed her, an Armenian girl; both the other daughters had married Eurasians, both brown-skinned, as were their children—now themselves married and with children and mingling with the blond family of the eldest daughter; and the glory of the whole family was the youngest son and brother Adrien, or Addy, who was paying court to Doddy van Oudijck, and who, despite the busy milling period, was constantly at Labuwangi.
In this family they had preserved traditions that have died out—as one remembers them in Indies families from years ago. Here one still found in the grounds on the back veranda the countless maids, one of whom does nothing but grind up rice powder, while another provides incense and a third pounds
sambal
for a hot sauce, all dreamy-eyed with agile, playful fingers. It was also where the succession of dishes in the
rijsttafel
seemed endless; where a long line of servants—one after another—solemnly served yet more varieties of vegetable sauce, yet another chicken dish, while maids ground
sambal
in an earthenware mortar to suit the different tastes and requirements and spoiled palates. Here it was still the custom, when the family attended the races at Ngajiwa, for each of the ladies to appear followed by a maid, moving slowly and solemnly; one maid carried a jar of rice powder, another a box of peppermints, binoculars, a fan, a bottle of perfume, like a court procession with state insignia. Here one also found old-fashioned hospitality; the row of guest rooms was open to whoever called; one could stay as long as one liked: no one asked about the purpose of your
journey, or your date of departure. A great inner simplicity, an all-embracing cordiality, instinctive and innate, prevailed here alongside limitless boredom and dreariness, a complete lack of ideas, few words, but with a gentle smile making up for ideas and words; materially life was full to overflowing, all day long one was served with cool drinks and biscuits and spicy fruit salad, and three maids were assigned to make salad and biscuits. There were numerous animals in the grounds: a cage full of monkeys, a few parrots, dogs, cats, tame squirrels and a small, exquisite mouse deer that roamed free. The house, built onto the factory, and at milling time ringing with the thunder of the machines—the sound of steamship propellers—was spacious and furnished with old, outdated furniture: the low wooden beds with four carved bedposts hung with mosquito nets, the rocking chairs with very rounded backs—all the kind of things one could no longer buy, everything without a single modern feature, except—only during the meal—the electric light in the front veranda! The district commissioners, always in indoor dress, the men in white or blue stripes, the women in sarongs and jackets, looking after either monkeys or parrots or deer, in simplicity of soul, always with the same sweet pleasantness, slowly and long drawn out, and the same gentle smile. Then, once the milling season was over, and all the rush had subsided—during which the lines of sugar wagons drawn by superb oxen with gleaming brown coats had kept bringing more and more and more loads of sugar cane down the road strewn with their shreds and ruined by the wide cart tracks—and the seed for next year had been bought,
and the machines were still, there was a sudden chance to relax after their unremitting toil. There came the long, long Sundays, the months of rest, the need for partying and fun. At the great dinner given by the lady of the house, with a ball and
tableaux vivants
, the whole house was full of visitors, both known and unknown, who stayed on and on. The old, wrinkled grandma—the lady of the house, the
radèn-ayu,
Mrs De Luce, whatever one wished to call her—was affable with her dulled eyes and betel-stained mouth, affable with everyone, always with an
anak mas
behind her—a “golden child”, a poor adopted princess—who followed her, the great princess from Solo, carrying the box of betel nuts: the child, a small slim girl of eight, with a fringe, her forehead made up with wet rice powder, round breasts already developing under the pink silk jacket and the gold miniature sarong around her narrow hips, like a doll, a toy belonging to the
radèn-ayu
, the dowager Mrs De Luce. And for the native villages there were popular festivals, a traditional gesture of liberality in which all Pajaram shared, according to the age-old tradition that was always observed, despite crisis or unrest.
It was relatively peaceful in the house now that the milling season and the celebrations were over, and an indolent calm had ensued. But Mrs Van Oudijck, Theo and Doddy had come over for the celebrations and were staying on at Pajaram for a few days. Seated around the marble table, on which there were glasses of syrup, lemonade and whisky soda, was a large group of people: they did not say much, but rocked contentedly up and down, occasionally exchanging a few
words. Mrs De Luce and Mrs Van Oudijck spoke Malay, but very little: a gentle, good-natured boredom descended on a large number of rocking people. It was strange to see the different types: the beautiful milky-white Léonie next to the yellow, wrinkled Princess dowager; Theo, light-skinned and blond as a Dutchman with his full, sensual lips that he had inherited from his Eurasian mother; Doddy, already like a mature rose with her irises sparkling in her black pupils; the son of the director, Achille de Luce—tall, well-built, brown—whose thoughts were focused solely on his machinery and his seed; the second son, Roger—short, thin, brown—the bookkeeper, whose thoughts were focused solely on that year’s profits, with his Armenian wife; the eldest daughter, already old—stupid and ugly, brown—with her full-blooded Dutch husband, who looked like a country bumpkin. The other sons and daughters, in all shades of brown, and hard to distinguish at first glance; and around them the children, the grandchildren, the maids, the little golden foster-children, the parrots and the deer and, as if sprinkled over all these grown-ups and children and animals, the same benevolent togetherness, but also over everyone the same pride in their Solo matriarch, who caused a pale halo of Javanese
aristocracy
to gleam behind all their heads, and as proud as any of them were her Armenian daughter-in-law and her clodhopping Dutch son-in-law.
The liveliest of all of these elements that had merged through long cohabitation in the patriarchal seat was the youngest son, Addy, in whom the blood of the Solo princess
and the French adventurer had mingled harmoniously. While it had not made him brainy, it had given him the good looks of a young Eurasian, with a Moorish touch, something southern, something Spanish. And in this youngest child the two racial elements, so far removed from each other, had for the first time been joined harmoniously, had for the first time married with complete mutual understanding—as if in him, this last child of so many, the adventurer and the princess had met in harmony for the first time. Addy appeared to have no imagination or intellect to speak of, and was incapable of stringing together two ideas to make a coherent train of thought; all he felt was the vague benevolence that had descended on the whole family, and apart from that he was like a beautiful animal that had degenerated spiritually and mentally, degenerated into one big emptiness. His body had become like a resurrection of racial perfection, full of strength and beauty, while his marrow and his blood and his flesh and his muscles had developed into a harmony of physical attraction, so utterly, mindlessly, beautifully sensual that the harmony had an immediate appeal for women. The young man had only to appear, like a beautiful southern god, for every woman’s eyes to be on him, and absorb him deep into their imaginations so they could later summon him up in their mind’s eye; the young man had only to come to a ball after the races at Ngajiwa for all the young girls to fall in love with him. He plucked love wherever he found it, and he found it particularly abundant in the villages around Pajaram. Every woman was in love with him, from his mother to his little
nieces. Doddy van Oudijck worshipped him. She had been in love hundreds of times since the age of seven, with anyone whom she spied with her bright eyes, but never before as she was with Addy. It radiated so strongly from her that it was like a flame everyone could see, and that made them smile. For her, the milling party had been one round of enchantment… when she danced with him; one round of torture… when he danced with anyone else. He had not proposed, but she was thinking of proposing to
him
, and dying if he refused. She knew that her father, the Commissioner, was opposed; he did not like the De Luce family, that Solo-French crowd, as he called them. But if Addy wanted to, her father would give in, because otherwise she, Doddy, would die. For this child of love, the young Eros was the whole world, the universe, life itself. He courted her, kissed her secretly on the lips, but no more than in the thoughtless way he did with others; he kissed other girls, too. If he was allowed to, he went further, quite naturally, like a devastating young god, an unthinking god. But he still had some respect for the commissioner’s daughter. He had neither courage nor impudence, and lacked much passion in his choices, seeing women as women and so sated with conquest that obstacles were not a stimulus. His garden was full of flowers, all of which strained towards him; he stretched out his hand almost without seeing, and just plucked.
While they rocked around the table, they saw him
approaching
through the garden and every woman’s eyes were trained on him as on a young seducer arriving in the sunshine,
which was like a radiant garland around him. The dowager
radèn-ayu
smiled and looked at her youngest son with love, her favourite. Behind her, squatting on the ground, the golden foster-child peered wide-eyed; the sisters peered, the nieces peered, Doddy peered, and Léonie van Oudijck’s milk-white complexion was tinged with a pink shade that merged with the glow of her smile. Automatically she glanced at Theo and their eyes met. And these souls that were all burning love—their eyes, mouths, flesh—understood each other, and Theo’s jealousy blazed so fiercely in her direction that the pink shade faded and she turned pale and was afraid, with a sudden unreasoning, shuddering fear that pierced her usual indifference, while the Seducer, in his halo of sunshine, came closer and closer…
M
RS VAN OUDIJCK
had promised to stay on for a few days in Pajaram, and in fact she was rather apprehensive, not feeling quite at home in these old-fashioned Indies surroundings. But when Addy appeared, she changed her mind. Deep in her heart this woman worshipped her sensuality, as if in the temple of her selfishness this
milky-white
Creole woman sacrificed all the intimacy of her
rose-tinted
imagination to her unquenchable desire, and in that worship she had arrived at an art, a knowledge, a science, of ascertaining with a single glance what attracted her in any man who was approaching her, who walked past her. With one it was his bearing, his voice; with another it was the curve of his neck on his shoulders; in a third it was his hand on his knee; but whatever it was, she saw it at once, at a glance. She knew instantly, in a trice. She had weighed up the passer-by in a fraction of a second and she knew at once whom she rejected—and that was the majority—and those she deemed worthy—and they were many. And those whom she rejected in that split second in her own supreme court, with that one glance, in that one instant, could abandon all hope: she, the priestess, would never admit them to the
temple. For others the temple was open, but only behind the screen of her decorum. However shameless she might be, she was always decorous, and love was always secret; for the world she was nothing but the charming, smiling Commissioner’s wife, somewhat indolent, who won everyone over with her smile. When people did not see her, they spoke ill of her; once they saw her, she immediately captivated them. Among all those with whom she had shared the secret of her love, there existed a kind of freemasonry, a
mysterious
cult: whenever two of them met in passing they would exchange no more than a few whispered words about the same memory. And Léonie, milky-white, could sit calmly in a large circle around a marble table where at least two or three men had been initiated into the secret. It did not ruffle her composure or dim her smile. She smiled ad nauseam. She would barely glance from one to the other, while she briefly reappraised them, with her infallible judgement. She had scarcely any recollection of past time spent with them, scarcely any thought of the next day’s assignation. It was the secret that existed only in the mystery of intimacy, and was therefore never divulged in the profane world. If in the circle a foot sought to touch hers, she would withdraw hers. She never flirted, indeed she was sometimes rather dull, stiff, prim and smiling. In the freemasonry between the initiates and herself, she revealed the mystery, but in the eyes of the world, in the circles round the marble tables, she did not give so much as a glance, a handshake, and her dress did not so much as approach a trouser leg.
She had been bored during these days at Pajaram after accepting the invitation to the milling celebrations, which she had declined in previous years, but now that she saw Addy approaching, she was no longer bored. Of course she had known him for years and had seen him grow from a child to a boy to a man, and she had even kissed him occasionally as a boy. She had been weighing him up for a long time, the Seducer. But now he approached with his halo of sunshine, she appraised him once more: his handsome, slim, animal quality and the glow of his Seducer’s eyes in the shadowy brown of his young Moor’s face, the curling swell of his lips, made just for kissing, with the young down of his moustache, the tigerish strength and suppleness of his Don Juan’s limbs. It all blazed out at her and made her blink. As he said hello and sat down, scattering cheerful words round the circle filled with languorous conversation and sleepy thoughts—as if showering a handful of his sunshine, his gold dust, over them all, over all those women: his mother and sisters and nieces and Doddy and Léonie—Léonie looked at him, just as they all looked at him, and her gaze moved to his hands. She could have kissed those hands; she suddenly fell in love with the shape of his fingers, with the brown tigerish strength of his palms. She fell instantly in love with all the wild animal quality that exuded from the young man’s every pore like a scent of virility. She could feel her blood pulsing, scarcely controllable, despite her great skill at remaining cool and decorous in the circles round the marble tables. But she was no longer bored. She had an aim for the next few days. Yet…
her blood was pulsing so violently that Theo had seen her blush and the trembling of her eyelids. Loving her as he did, his eyes had seen right through her. And when they went for the
rijsttafel
on the back veranda, where the maids were already squatting to grind everyone’s hot spices according to the individual tastes, he shot just two words at her under his breath:
“Be careful!”
She started, feeling he was threatening her. That had never happened before; all those who had shared in the mystery had always shown her respect. She was so shocked, so indignant at that touching of the temple curtain—on a veranda full of people—that her calm indifference was set churning and her eternally carefree tranquillity was roused to revolt. But she looked at him—blond, broad-shouldered, tall, a younger version of her husband, his Indies blood revealing itself only in the sensuality of his mouth—and she did not want to lose him: she wanted to keep this type of man alongside the Moorish Seducer. She wanted them both; she wanted to savour the difference between their male attraction, the Dutch blond-and-white kind with the merest trace of Indies blood, and Addy’s feral attraction. Her soul trembled, her blood trembled, as the long succession of dishes circulated ceremoniously. She was in more turmoil than she had ever been. Awakening from her placid indifference was like a rebirth, an unknown emotion. She found it bewildering to be thirty, and to feel it for the first time. A feverish
wickedness
blossomed in her, like the overpowering scent of red
flowers. She looked at Doddy sitting next to Addy; the poor child could scarcely eat, she was aglow with love… Oh, the Seducer, he had only to appear!… And Léonie, in her fever of wickedness, rejoiced at being the rival of her much younger stepdaughter… She would look after her, she would even warn Van Oudijck. Would it ever come to a marriage? What did marriage matter to her, Léonie?! Oh, the Seducer! She had never dreamt of him so in her pink siesta hours! This was not the charm of cherubs, this was the pungent smell of tiger-like attraction; the golden sparkle of his eyes, the muscular suppleness of his prowling paws… And she smiled at Theo with a look of self-surrender: a great rarity among the circle of people eating their rice. Normally she never gave herself away in public. Now she yielded for a second, happy that Theo was jealous. She was passionately fond of him. She loved the fact that he looked pale and angry with jealousy. Around her, the sunny afternoon glowed and the
sambal
was irritating her dry palate. There were small beads of sweat on her temples, and on her breasts under the lace of her jacket. She would have liked to hug them both at once, Theo and Addy, in a single embrace, in a mixture of different sorts of lust, clutching them both to a body made for love…