Van Helderen’s two children, a boy and girl of six and seven, were staying at Eva’s; and Van Helderen came in regularly once a day for a meal. He no longer spoke of his intense feeling, as though unwilling to disturb the pleasant intimacy of their daily intercourse. And she accepted his daily visits, was powerless to keep him at a distance. He was the only man in her immediate circle with whom she could speak and think aloud; and he was a comfort to her in these days of dejection. She did not understand how she had come to this, but she gradually lapsed into an absolute apathy, a sort of annihilating condition of thinking nothing necessary. She had never been like this before. Her nature was lively and cheerful, seeking and admiring the beautiful in poetry and music and painting, things which, from her early childhood, from her childish books, she had seen about her and felt and discussed. In India she had gradually come to lack everything of which she felt a need. In her despair she succumbed to a sort of nihilism that made her ask:

“What is the reason of anything?... Why the world and the people in it and the mountains?... Why all this tiny whirl of life?”

And then, when she read of the social movements, of the great social problems in Europe, of the Eurasian question in Java, which was becoming more and more urgent, she thought to herself:

“Why should there be a world, if man eternally remains the same, small and suffering and oppressed by all the misery of his humanity?”

She did not see the purpose of it all. Half of mankind was suffering poverty and struggling upwards out of that darkness ... to what? The other half was stagnating stupidly and dully amid its riches. Between the two was a scale of gradations, from black poverty to dismal wealth. Over them stood the rainbow of the eternal illusions, love, art, the great notes of interrogation of justice and peace and an ideal future.... She felt that it was much ado about nothing, she failed to see the purpose and she thought of herself:

“Why is it all so?... And why the world and poor humanity?”

She had never felt like this before, but there was no struggling against it. Gradually, from day to day, India was making her so, making her sick at her very soul. Frans van Helderen was her only consolation. The young controller, who had never been to Europe, who had received all his education at Batavia, who had passed his examinations at Batavia, with his distinguished manners, his supple courtesy, his strange, enigmatic nationality, had grown dear to her in friendship because of his almost exotic development. She told him how she delighted in this friendship; and he no longer replied by offering his love. There was too much charm about their present relation. There was something ideal in it, which they both needed. In their everyday surroundings, that friendship shone before them like an exquisite halo of which they were both proud. He often called to see her, especially now that his wife was at Tosari; and they would walk in the evening twilight to the beacon which stood by the sea like a small Eiffel tower. These walks were much talked about, but they did not mind that. They sat down on the foundation of the beacon, looked out to sea and listened to the distance. Ghostly proas, with sails like night-birds’ wings, glided into the canal, to the droning sing-song of the fishermen. A melancholy of resignation, of a small world and small people hovered beneath the skies filled with twinkling stars, where gleamed the mystic diamonds of the Southern Cross or the Turkish crescent of the horned moon. And above that melancholy of the droning fishermen, of crazy proas, of small people at the foot of the little light-house, drifted a fathomless immensity of the skies and the eternal stars. And from out the immensity drifted the unutterable, as it were the superhumanly divine, wherein all that was small and human sank and melted away.

“Why attach any value to life when I may die to-morrow?” thought Eva. “Why all this confusion and turmoil of mankind, when to-morrow perhaps everything may have ceased to exist?”

And she put the question to him. He replied that each of us was not living for himself and the present age, but for all mankind and for the future. But she gave a bitter laugh, shrugged her shoulders, thought him commonplace. And she thought herself commonplace, to think such things that had so often been thought before. But still, notwithstanding her self-criticism, she continued under the obsession of the uselessness of life, when everything might be dead to-morrow. And an humiliating littleness, as of atoms, overcame them, both of them, as they sat gazing into the spaciousness of the skies and the eternal stars.

Yet they loved those moments, which were everything in their lives; for, when they did not feel their pettiness too keenly, they spoke of books, music, painting and the big, important things of life. And they felt that, in spite of the circulating library and the Italian opera at Surabaya, they were no longer in touch with the world. They felt the great, important things to be very far from them. And both of them now became seized with a nostalgia for Europe, a longing to feel so very small no longer. They would both have liked to get away, to go to Europe. But neither of them was able. Their petty, daily life held them captive. Then, as though spontaneously, in mutual harmony, they spoke of what was soul and being and all the mystery thereof.

All the mystery. They felt it in the sea, in the sky; but they also quietly sought it in the rapping leg of a table. They did not understand how a soul or spirit could reveal itself through a table on which they earnestly laid their hands and which through their magnetic fluid was transformed from dead to living matter. But, when they laid their hands upon it, the table lived and they were forced to believe. The letters which they counted out were often confused, according to some strange alphabet; and the table, as though directed by a mocking spirit, constantly showed a tendency to tease and confuse, to stop suddenly or to be coarse and indecent. Sometimes they read books on spiritualism and did not know whether to believe or not.

These were quiet days of quiet monotony in the little town swept by the rustling rain. Their life in common seemed unreal, like a dream that rose through the rain like a mist. And it was like a sudden awakening for Eva when, one afternoon, walking outside in the damp avenue waiting for Van Helderen, she saw Van Oudijck coming in her direction.

“I was just on my way to you!” he cried, excitedly. “I was just coming to ask a favour. Will you help me once more?”

“In what, resident?”

“But first tell me: aren’t you well? You’ve not been looking very fit lately.”

“It’s nothing serious,” she said, with a dreary laugh. “It’ll pass. What can I help you in, resident?”

“There’s something to be done, mevrouwtje, and we can’t manage without you. My wife herself was saying this morning, ‘Better ask Mrs. Eldersma.’”

“But tell me what it is.”

“You know Mrs. Staats, the station-master’s widow. The poor woman has been left without a thing, except her five children and some debts.”

“He committed suicide, didn’t he?”

“Yes, it’s very sad. And we really must help her. There’s a lot of money needed. Sending round a subscription-list won’t bring in much. People are very generous, but they’ve already made such sacrifices lately. They went mad at the fancy-fair. They can’t do much for the moment, so near the end of the month. But, early next month, in the first week of January, mevrouwtje, some theatricals by your Thalia society: you know, nothing elaborate, a couple of drawing-room sketches and no expenses. Seats at a guilder and a half, two guilders and a half, perhaps, and, if you set it going, the hall will be full; people will come over from Surabaya. You must help me, you will, won’t you?”

“But, resident,” said Eva, wearily, “we’ve just had those tableaux-vivants. Don’t be angry with me, but I don’t care to be always acting.”

“Yes, yes, you must this time,” Van Oudijck insisted, a little imperiously, greatly excited about his plan.

She became peevish. She liked her independence; and in these days of dejection particularly she was too disconsolate, in these days of dreaming she felt too much confused to accede at once with a good grace to his authoritative request:

“Really, resident, I can think of nothing this time,” she answered, curtly. “Why doesn’t Mrs. van Oudijck do it herself?”

She was startled when she had made this peevish remark. Walking beside her, the resident lost his composure; and his face clouded over. The animated, cheerful expression and the jovial smile around his thick moustache suddenly disappeared. She saw that she had been cruel; and she felt remorse for it. And for the first time, suddenly, she saw that, in love with his wife though he was, he did not approve of her withdrawing herself from everything. She saw that it gave him pain. It was as though this side of his character were being made clear to her: she was seeing it plainly for the first time.

He did not know what to reply: seeking for his words, he remained silent.

Then she said, coaxingly:

“Don’t be angry, resident. It wasn’t nice of me. I know that all that sort of bustle only bores Mrs. van Oudijck. I am glad to relieve her of it. I will do anything you wish.”

Her eyes were filled with nervous tears.

He was smiling now and gave her a penetrating sidelong glance:

“You’re a bit overstrung. But I knew that you had a good heart ... and would not leave me in the lurch ... and would consent to help poor old Mother Staats. But don’t throw away any money, mevrouwtje: no expense, no new scenery. Just your wit, your talent, your beautiful elocution: French or Dutch, as you please. We’re proud of all that at Labuwangi, you know; and all the beautiful acting—which you give us free of charge—is quite enough to make the performance a success. But how overstrung you are, mevrouwtje! Why are you crying? Aren’t you well? Tell me: is there anything I can do for you?”

“Don’t work my husband so hard, resident. I never see anything of him.”

He made a gesture to show that he could not help himself:

“It’s true,” he admitted. “There’s an awful lot to do. Is that the trouble?”

“And make me see the good side of India.”

“Is that it?”

“And a lot besides.”

“Are you becoming homesick? Don’t you care for India any longer, don’t you care for Labuwangi, where we all make so much of you?... You misjudge India. Try to see the good side of it.”

“I have tried.”

“Is it no use?”

“No.”

“You are too sensible not to perceive the good in this country.”

“You are too fond of it to be impartial. And I don’t know how to be impartial. But tell me the good things.”

“Which shall I begin with? The satisfaction of being able, as an official, to do good to the country and the people. The fine, delightful sense of working for this country and this people; the ample hard work that fills a man’s life out here.... I’m not speaking of all the office-work of your husband, who is district secretary. But I’m speaking of later on, when he becomes an assistant-resident!”

“It will be so long before that happens!”

“Well, then, the spacious material life?”

“The white ants gnaw everything.”

“That’s a poor joke, mevrouw.”

“Very possibly, resident. Everything is out of tune with me, inside and out: my wit, my piano and my poor soul.”

“Nature, then?”

“I don’t feel it all. Nature is conquering me and devouring me.”

“Your own activities?”

“My activities? One of the good things in India?”

“Yes. To inspire us material, practical people with your wit, now and again.”

“Resident! You’re paying me compliments!... Is this all on account of the theatricals?”

“And to do good to Mother Staats with that wit of yours!”

“Couldn’t I do good in Europe?”

“Certainly, certainly,” he said, bluffly. “Go to Europe, mevrouw, by all means. Go and live at the Hague; join the Charity Organization Society ... with a collecting-box at your door and a rix-dollar ... how often?”

She laughed:

“Now you’re becoming unjust. They do a lot of good in Holland too.”

“But do they ever do in Holland for one distressed person ... what we, what you are now going to do for Mother Staats? And don’t tell me that there’s less poverty here.”

“Well?”

“Well, then, there is a great deal of good for you here. Your special activities. Your material and moral work for others.... Don’t let Van Helderen get too much smitten with you, mevrouw. He’s a charming fellow, but he puts too much literature into his monthly reports.... I see him coming and I must be off. So I can rely on you?”

“Absolutely.”

“When shall we have the first meeting, with the committee and the ladies?”

“To-morrow evening, resident, at your house?”

“Right you are. I shall send round the subscription-lists. We must make a lot of money, mevrouw.”

“We’ll do our best for Mother Staats,” she said, gently.

He shook her hand and went away. She felt limp, she did not know why:

“The resident has been warning me against you, because you’re too literary!” she said to Van Helderen, teasingly.

She sat down in the front verandah. The skies burst asunder; a white curtain of rain descended in perpendicular streams. A plague of locusts came hopping along the verandah. A cloud of tiny flies hummed in the corners like an Æolian harp. Eva and Van Helderen placed their hands on the little table and it tilted its leg with a jerk, while the beetles buzzed around them.