Love and Death in Bali Read online

  LOVE

  and

  DEATH

  in

  BALI

  Novels by Vicki Baum

  GRAND HOTEL

  RESULTS OF AN ACCIDENT

  HELENE

  SECRET SENTENCE

  MARTIN’S SUMMER

  FALLING STAR

  MEN NEVER KNOW

  CAREER

  A TALE FROM BALI

  NANKING ROAD

  CENTRAL STORES

  THE SHIP AND THE SHORE

  GRAND OPERA

  MARION ALIVE

  ONCE IN VIENNA

  BERLIN HOTEL

  THE WEEPING WOOD

  HEADLESS ANGEL

  DANGER FROM DEER

  THE MUSTARD SEED

  WRITTEN ON WATER

  BALLERINA

  I KNOW WHAT I’M WORTH

  MORTGAGE ON LIFE

  FLIGHT OF FATE

  LOVE

  and

  DEATH

  in

  BALI

  VICKI BAUM

  With a new foreword by

  NIGEL BARLEY

  TUTTLE Publishing

  Tokyo | Rutland, Vermont | Singapore

  Published by Tuttle Publishing, an imprint of Periplus Editions (HK) Ltd.

  www.tuttlepublishing.com

  Translated by Basil Creighton © 1937 by the Estate of the late Vicki Baum. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright Owner

  This title was first published in 1999 as A Tale From Bali.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Baum, Vicki, 1888-1960. [Ende der geburt. English]

  Love and death in Bali / Vicki Baum; with a new foreword by Nigel Barley; [translated by Basil Creighton].

  p. cm.

  “This title was first published as A Tale From Bali”--T.p. verso.

  ISBN: 978-1-4629-0018-3 (ebook)

  I. Creighton, Basil. II. Title. PT2603.A815E5313 2011

  833’.912--dc22

  2010051926

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  Asia Pacific

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  14 13 12 11 x10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in Singapore

  TUTTLE PUBLISHING® is a registered trademark of Tuttle Publishing, a division of Periplus Editions (HK) Ltd.

  Contents

  Foreword 7

  Preface 13

  Introduction 16

  The Wreck of the Sri Kumala 35

  The Puri 60

  Buleleng 85

  The People of Taman Sari 95

  The Birthday 159

  The Bad Time 188

  Raka 224

  The Srawah 276

  The End 312

  Foreword

  Vicki Baum was born into a wealthy but dysfunctional Jewish family in Vienna in 1888 and trained initially as a concert harpist. By the time she came to Bali in 1935, however, she had laid her harp aside in favor of a typewriter and already enjoyed a considerable reputation as a popular and stylish writer, both in German and in English translation, and had established herself in print and in person on both sides of the Atlantic. Although a prolific author and Berlin journalist, she would always be remembered most for her first 1929 best seller, Menschen im Hotel, (Grand Hotel), which went on to storm the stages of European theatre and triumph on Broadway until it was finally filmed in the United States in a version that featured Greta Garbo and Joan Crawford and won the Academy Award for best picture in1931. This was a turning point in her life. She was famous around the world, yet, as she noted somewhat sourly in her autobiography, a successful book may be harder to live down than a failure and, throughout her professional career, Vicki Baum would struggle both for artistic independence and to be regarded as anything more than a light “women’s writer” of the kind whose work appeared in magazines. Later, with her usual disparaging and ironic wit, she would describe herself as “a first-rate writer of the second rank.” So, while Grand Hotel allowed her to make the transition from Germany to America and move into Hollywood scriptwriting, she would not know real literary success again until the appearance of Love and Death in Bali in 1937.

  By the mid-30s Vicki Baum was disappointed in her lack of definitive success in Hollywood and tired of the interference that was part of the studio system. “Fifty people were using my toothbrush,” as she put it. She embarked on a series of voyages to distant parts, in Balinese dance and drama, as well as organizing cultural displays for a visit of the Dutch Governor-General. Vicki saw an intense version of Bali specially arranged to impress outsiders. After her short visit she returned to America, but was haunted by the memory of Spies and Bali and a book that was lurking in her mind. A year later, at the start of the rainy season, she returned with Dreesen and Lindner and, while they moved on, she would stay a full nine months with Spies in his house at Campuan in Ubud. So it was here, in a riverside guest house he had built for Barbara Hutton (at that time the world’s richest woman) that she would sit down to write Liebe und Tod auf Bali. (This was originally translated as A Tale from Bali but is now, more accurately, rendered as Love and Death in Bali in the present edition). The book was finished, despite attacks of malaria and diphtheria, before she returned to America in October of that year. Love and Death in Bali is just one of several works associated with Walter Spies and the Ubud of the late 20s and 30s for, before the Second World War unleashed itself upon Southeast Asia, the little house in Campuan was at the centre of a bohemian community of artists and scholars who sought to explore and fix their experience of Bali in writing, music and painting. Spies was himself an accomplished musician, painter, ethnographer, cinéast, choreographer and natural historian and became a bridge between the West and the Balinese to such an extent that even the Dutch, the colonial ruling power, could find no alternative to using him as Director when they wanted to establish their new Bali Museum. Charlie Chaplin, Noel Coward, Miguel Covarrubias, Colin McPhee, Leon Stokowski, Margaret Mead and Gregory Bateson—and others famous at the time as artists, opinion-formers and academics but now forgotten—all served their apprenticeship in things Balinese at the feet of Spies and spread his vision of Bali as an enchanted island across the world. From being seen as a place where the inhabitants were primitive and violent, and to which Dutch officials might be relegated as punishment, Bali became a site for Western fantasies about a tropical paradise.

  Vicki Baum was
exactly the sort of woman that Spies adored—literate, clever, independent, open-minded and very funny and, in the evenings beside the river at Campuan, their friendship blossomed and flourished. The selfless Dr. Fabius of Baum’s spoof introduction—a device shamelessly lifted from Conrad’s Heart of Darkness— is a tribute to him and his scholarship. We know that she was so taken with Spies as a character that she later began another work of fiction based upon him and entitled Portrait of an Unknown Man; alas, it was never completed. It is significant for understanding the relationship between her experience in Bali and her writing about it that, when subsequently asked to compose a memoir about Spies, she declared that this was now impossible, as her fictional Spies had completely eradicated the historical one from her mind. Whereas in the introduction of Love and Death in Bali the author edits the rambling manuscript of Fabius, in real life that relationship was reversed, and it was Walter Spies who painstakingly amended Vicki Baum’s text to correct the ethnography and provide the confident local color that makes it such a vivid read and such a convincing introduction to the Balinese way of life. Vicki Baum was deeply affected by Bali for the rest of her life and attributed to it a sort of personal spiritual awakening, so that the title page of the book bears a quotation from the Bhagavad Gita. Perhaps this deep personal involvement explains why it has gone on to become an unquestioned classic and continues to shape the Western encounter with Bali.

  Love and Death in Bali skillfully intermeshes several different stories that all come together in the infamous puputan, the slaughter and mass suicides that brought the old Bali to an end in 1906 and finally extended Dutch rule from the north over the south of the island. The invasion, triggered by the looting of a Chinese ship cast up on the beach at Sanur, brought the Dutch the military resolution they sought but at the price of worldwide condemnation for the blood shed as they finally crushed out the anomaly of southern Balinese the cruel exactions made on him and his family and sees no reason to embrace a fight between rulers that is none of his concern. So, instead of marching fearlessly into the Dutch guns with his father and his raja, as tradition and his ruler demand, he decides to look after what is left of his own family instead. Raka is a noble dancer, famed for his beauty, who comes to a final acceptance of the apparently unjust punishment that the gods have unleashed upon him and finds release and redemption in the self-sacrifice of a willing death. For him, to embrace the end of Bali is a way to ensure that it lives on. And throughout the book, it is the love of beauty that stalks the pages in several of its divine forms, the love of Pak for his second wife, for his cheap and worthless china plates and for the fighting cock whose confiscation finally poisons his heart; of Raka for the beauty of his lord’s wife, for the beauty of the dance, and, finally for his own fair face. The Balinese characters here are very far from being the naked savages that the Dutch declare them to be but, rather, are thinking, sensitive, cultured people who might have stepped out of a hauntingly idyllic landscape painted by Walter Spies.

  Baum seems often to have drawn her characters from life and was not unwilling to enter into the minds of locals in a way that seems strikingly unpatronizing for the time. So while Fabius is clearly Spies, even at this remove, it seems likely that the character of Raka, the beautiful but adulterous and finally leprous dancer, is borrowed from that of Rawa, Spies’s favorite male performer from the village of Pagutan, who was notorious for his infidelities and whose otherwise perfect face and body were marred by bad teeth. Spies regularly took his visitors to watch his performances. More generally, the male-male relationships in the story and the resolution of the conflict in the rescue of Oka, the Balinese youth, by Dekker, his Dutch enemy who is then overwhelmed by the sheer physicality of his male beauty, seem to owe more than a nod towards the homoerotic milieu of Campuan in which Spies himself moved and to which Baum herself was accustomed since her Berlin days.

  And yet, despite her informed empathy for local people, Baum does not fall into the mistake of casting the plodding Dutch who oppose the comely Balinese as mere monsters. While she shows Bali as a very special and enchanted place, it is not without its flaws that build up to gradually erode the idyllic state of her opening, and she is careful to declare in her introduction her admiration for Dutch rule. In her book, the Dutch are devious and ambitious but their belief in their own civilizing mission, while overblown, is no mere empty pose. The burning of widows and the physical mutilation of criminals, both part of traditional Balinese life, were as repugnant to a wider world then as they are now elsewhere and the same arguments were bandied back and forth then as are deployed now. Vicki Baum never embraces uncritically the romantic and exotic notion of Bali as a paradise on earth, as did some others of the Ubud set, and remains, to the last, an independent and critical thinker.

  Love and Death in Bali was well received when it first appeared in German in 1937. It would be several more years before the National Socialists proscribed Vicki Baum’s books and consigned them to the flames. The English translation enjoyed modest success in Great Britain where the London Times remarked coolly that “The characters that emerge from this earthly paradise are appropriately attractive” and the Observer was not alone in noting, “As a novel, although it is often vivid and powerful, and although it is readable throughout, ...(it)... is of less value than as a brilliantly sustained record of unfamiliar ways; but the record is deeply interesting.” Its greatest success was undoubtedly in the U.S., where it was listed as a best seller by the New York Times. Their reviewer probably hit the nail on the head by noting of the author, “Not only has she chosen for her setting that enchanted South Sea Island which has lately been so overpublicized, but she has written it in terms remote from the maunderings of crooners and the ecstasies of casual tourists.” For Bali was far from being unknown, and its imagined attractions were very much in the fashionable air, with commentators of the time The term, goona goona—magic—even briefly became a euphemism amongst the New York glitterati for sexual allure, and Cole Porter included “a dance in Bali” as one of the listed endearments of his “You’re the Top” hit song of 1934. Miguel and Rosa Covarrubias, similarly guests in Ubud, had shot a film there that was widely publicized in New York, and one of Miguel’s Balinese paintings was chosen for the cover of Vanity Fair in 1936. It was voted the best cover of the year. As a well-known designer as well as an artist, he was even able to arrange a sort of extended Balinese promotion in the windows of the Franklin Simon department store, complete with Balinese-inspired textiles and an outrigger canoe, before he released his own book The Island of Bali in 1937, the same year as Vicki Baum’s. All this ensured that Baum’s novel fell on well-prepared ground and was enthusiastically received. “By far the best book which Miss Baum has written in years,” roundly concluded one reviewer. Given subsequent developments, it is ironic that Vicki Baum notes in her own preface that the real Bali contains no Bali bars, Bali bathing costumes and Bali songs. Life, since then, has imitated art.

  Vicki Baum had been astute enough to see which way the political and artistic wind was blowing in Europe and moved herself and her family to the United States in 1932. In 1938 she became an American citizen. Love and Death in Bali was one of her last books to be written in German rather than the English that she later embraced. She died of leukaemia in Los Angeles in 1960, having successfully concealed the true nature of her illness from her family until the very end, a ploy she allegedly borrowed from the plot of one of her own novels.

  Nigel Barley

  Preface

  It must, I think, have been in 1916, a time when Europe was too much preoccupied to remember the existence of a little island called Bali, that I came by chance into the possession of some very beautiful photographs. One of my friends had got them from an acquaintance—a doctor who lived in Bali. They made such an impression on me that I begged my friend to give me them; and I kept turning again and again to these pictures of men and beasts and landscapes, whenever the horrors my generation was exposed to—war, revol
ution, inflation, emigration—became unbearable. A strange relationship grew up between these photographs and me; I felt that I should one day come to know those people and that I had actually walked along those village streets and gone in at those temple doors.

  It was not until 1935 that I was able to make the voyage to Bali. My first visit was the realization of a dream without a hint of disillusionment. The privilege I enjoyed of seeing the real and unspoilt Bali instead of merely the modernized and tawdry fringes which tourists skirt in comfort was due to a letter of introduction to Doctor Fabius.

  It was Doctor Fabius whose now faded and yellowing photographs had played so great a part in my life. He had the reputation of being the oldest Dutch resident and an eccentric with an unrivalled knowledge of Balinese life. The other Dutch officials on the island had a great respect for his professional ability, his knowledge and his influence over the natives. At the same time they were inclined to laugh at the way he lived and said of him that he was half Balinese. He was a white-haired, lean, silent old gentleman, of an ironical turn of mind and rather averse to visits from persons like myself. In spite of this a peculiar sort of friendship developed between us in the course of time, and this resulted in his taking me with him to more and more distant villages and allowing me to see the real life of the Balinese.

  When I returned to America I had a strange feeling of homesickness for Bali; I wrote several letters to Doctor Fabius which remained unanswered. I went back to Bali a year later for a second, and this time a long, visit, and found that he had died of pneumonia. The works of art, which had filled his house to overflowing, had been bequeathed to various friends; but for me Fabius had singled out one of those cheap, funny little Japanese tin boxes. I received this legacy with a feeling of perplexity and surprise. The box contained papers, some written by hand, some typewritten. There were pages from diaries, notes on customs and ceremonies, memoranda of all sorts, and also a long novel, the theme of which was the conquest of Bali by the Dutch. With them was a letter, in which Doctor Fabius authorized me in a few rather ironical sentences to reduce this jumble of manuscripts to order—“a task in which I have always been hindered by my Balinese laziness,” as he said—and to publish what I thought worthy of publication.