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 fewwords. 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 princessand 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
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 fewwords. 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 princessand 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
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