Part 11

Sister Kardinah also wishes to become a teacher, and has chosen as her specialty domestic science and cooking. Our plan is to remain together always and to work side by side for our common goal; the education of our people.

If fate is propitious we shall open a school, in which instruction will be given along broader lines than mere book education; it will include lessons in handiwork, household arts and kindred subjects, and there will also be classes in wood-carving and painting, and in mid-wifery. But a course in domestic science can only be taken in Holland; there is no opportunity here. Kleintje's forte is really music and her dearest dream was and still is, to become a musician, but that is absolutely impossible for her; so my little maid has resigned herself to the inevitable.

She is so eager to work for our people, and a teacher of the household arts could do a tremendous amount of good. More and more the Government realizes what a great advantage it would be to the people and their rulers, if they could learn economy.

We may appeal to the Government on behalf of Kleintje, and asked that she be placed at a school where she could be qualified to teach domestic economy. My little sister wishes to undertake the great task of teaching the women and future mothers of Java economy and frugality.

Lately the Government has shown that it wishes to place a premium upon education and enlightenment in its magistrates; this has been evinced by the latest regents'[4] appointments. According to custom, regents have been appointed by the law of heredity, from father to son, and if there is no son available, then some near relative of the last regent is appointed. It has never happened before that the new regent was no connection at all; but the two newly appointed men are progressive and enlightened and have been educated in Europe.

It is evident that the Government is in earnest in its endeavour to civilize and educate the people of Java, and especially the classes from which the Government servants are recruited.

The Heer Abendanon has said that there can be no argument against the statement that the intellectual awakening of the native people cannot progress appreciably as long as the woman is left behind in the forward march. The education of woman has always been an important factor in civilization.

In the last fifteen years, the Government of Netherland-India has sent four young Javanese to Holland at its own expense, to be educated there as teachers so that they may come back later to work for the good of their fellow countrymen. The Government realized that their work would have better results if they received their educations abroad. But the desire to do this did not come of itself to these men; it was suggested by those who had the awakening of India at heart.

With us it is different. In us the impulse, the longing to do something for our people was born in our own hearts, from deeply rooted conviction, and came through suffering, and through sympathy for the suffering of others.

We are only waiting for Father's permission now. Forgive a father, Stella, that he hesitates to give his children as hostages to an uncertain future. As innovators, as pioneers, we must stand alone, combat and overcome obstacles; our way will lead through much suffering and discouragement, it is certain. And what parents would wish to see their children zealous for suffering? What parents willingly see their children voluntarily dedicate themselves to lives of struggle and disappointment?

I do not know that I should go to Holland to study now, even if the opportunity were offered me, though to go has always been one of my greatest desires. Last year when it was suggested that I study at home I set myself against the proposition with all my might. If I studied at all, I wanted to study properly, and I could only do that in Holland or at Batavia. And as Holland was beyond my reach, my head was set upon Batavia.

I did not think I could study well at home, because I could not devote my whole time to my books. At my time of life there would be too many other claims upon me. Household and social duties would keep me too much from my work, it would be impossible to eliminate them if I remained at home. That was last year when Father was well and strong; now Father is that no longer alas!

Forgive a daughter, Stella, if once when she might have had the opportunity to fulfil her heart's wish, a wish upon which the future well-being of many others also depended, she held back, because she had not the heart to separate from a father who had given her love and care her whole life long and whose feeble health now demanded more than ever the care and affection which she alone could give.

Stella, I am a child, I am a daughter, not a woman alone, who can give herself wholly, and dedicate herself to a great and beautiful work. I am also a child bound by the bonds of tenderest love and gratitude to an old grey father, who has grown old and grey through care for his children. Of these children perhaps I am dearest.

Stella, you who know my great love for him, and next to that my love for what I regard as our calling, who know the strength of my affection for my sisters, will be able to understand what a hard conflict there is in store for me. I must be separated from my sisters, away from the work that I would do, or separated from Father, united with my sisters, and giving my all to our calling.

Father is weak now, needs care, and my first duty is to him. Oh Stella, I should never have a moment's peace if I carried on my own work far away from Father, knowing that he was suffering and needed me.

The work which we would do is noble. It will not be only for the present but for all time. Still I should never be able to answer to my own conscience if I should neglect my old, grey father for any cause whatever. He has the first right to me.

One of the precepts which I wish to inculcate is this: honour every living creature, respects their rights, their feelings; and even when it seems necessary, shrink from causing the least suffering to another. Should I be able to teach others what I myself neglected in practice?

I must never forsake my duty as a child, but neither must I forsake the duty which I owe to myself, for it is not my own happiness that depends upon its realization but great good to others. The problem now is to try and harmonize as far as possible these two duties which are diametrically opposed to each other. The only solution seemed to be to find some way by which I could stay with Father, and also go on with my studies.

I am going to study here at home, and fit myself for the profession of teaching, just as well as one can be fitted by self-study, when it is supported by a strong will, and perseverance.

I had already thought of this plan, but Mevrouw Abendanon gave it the impetus which pushed it forward, when she suggested some time ago that, without waiting for further arbitraments of capricious fate, we three go ahead and study here at home.

We have had a governess for two months; in her we have found a charming and affectionate friend. She is still very young, a girl of strong character who has left her family in the Fatherland and come here to earn her daily bread.

It is only unfortunate that this miserable sickness has come; otherwise we should be getting along famously. Naturally all this time I have not been able to look at a book. Annie Glazer, that is our teacher's name, has engagements which take her on some days, to another family here. But as soon as she can arrange it, she will give her entire time to us or to me alone most probably, for my poor sisters must not have anything in their hands, and above all in their heads, just now. They feel very miserable under the enforced idleness, but hands and heads are still weak.

What do you think about all of these high flying plans? If only you do not say, "Poor thing, you are trying to fly too high," I shall be satisfied. Do you know what I have noticed among our friends? That they have too high an opinion of us. They ascribe to us qualities and abilities which we do not possess. Sometimes we have to laugh at their enthusiasm. The saying that "Love is blind" is here applicable. You should only hear some of the things of which they think us capable. We feel our own limitations deeply, whenever our friends set us so in the sun. We feel small, but we feel grateful too for the love of which it speaks. One friend would be glad to see me work with my pen, for our people. I must found a journal devoted to their needs, and must be its editor, or I must become a writer on the foremost daily newspaper of India and write articles, by which those who are now fast sleeping will be frightened wide awake! Had I no reason for my assertion that "Love is blind"?

And, now I must think of parting from my sisters, the idea is frightful to them, and it is no less so to me. If they are successful in getting that for which they are asking they will be far from us in a strange land. It is fortunate that they have a brother there, who even as I, loves the sisters from his soul. This brother is full of enthusiasm and sympathy for our ideals, for in them he finds an echo of his own. We have made a compact with him, that when he has completed his studies, he will come back to us and we will work together.

It is an inspiration to us that he should share in the ideals of his sisters, it lifts us up, draws us forward, just as does the great sympathy and understanding which you have for us. There is still another young man, European, who only knows us through his mother, but who sympathizes with our cause and takes a lively interest in it. The sympathy and understanding of friends even when we do not know them personally, is a great support to us. We need this support very much. You will always give me yours. Will you not, Stella?

[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.

[2] Modjowarno is the principal mission station in the eastern part of Java.

[3] Member of the Chamber. (M.D.)

[4] "La société indigène est essentiellement aristocratique. Au-dessus du bas peuple qui cultive le sol et n'a de plus grande ambition que celle d'entrer au service du gouvernement de devenir fonctionnaire, s'étage une aristocratie nombreuse dotée de privilèges et d'honneurs. Cette aristocratie de naissance engourdie par sa situation privilégié n'a pas su la conserver intacte, et les Hollandais qui se sont appuyés sur elle pour gouverner, ont élevé à côté d'elle une aristocratie de mérite donnant à des simples parvenues plus capable et plus instruits les postes d'iniatives sinon d'apparant."--"Java et ses Habitants," by A. Fabert, Annals des Sciences Politiques, Paris, 1900.

XXVII

_November 20th, 1901._[1]

One should never promise anything, even when it depends entirely upon oneself, because one can never tell beforehand what will happen. Never mind how honestly the promise is made, and how earnestly one desires to keep it, unforeseen circumstances may arise, which make its fulfillment impossible. There is a belief among us Javanese, that those who break a promise will be visited by a poisonous serpent. The serpent comes to remind them of their promise, if they do not quickly fulfill it, they will be visited by another more venomous serpent, whose bite is deadly. If they delay longer, misfortune will surely overtake them. The serpent only lives upon the promises of holy spirits, as the souls of the righteous who are dead are nourished by flowers, perfume and incense. The serpent is sent by the departed souls of the righteous to remind men of their forgotten promises. But why do I tell you of our Javanese beliefs? Forgive me, when there is so much besides that I want to tell you.

I deserve a fine scolding for my long delay in writing; in large measure, it was due to indolence. I am not satisfied with myself! What makes me so lazy and restless? I do not understand it. I am not definitely sick, but at the same time I am far from well. I am dull, weary and uneasy; nonsense--hypochondria--there! I must seize hold of myself; it is work that I need--work that my heart is in. And now comes my stupidity; because I cannot work at that which I would, I turn with distaste from all other forms of toil. That is weakness, I know. But I could stand a whole avalanche of work better than these unbearable trivialities with which my time is filled.

[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

XXVIII

_November 29, 1901._[1]

I fear that it made you both sad to read my last letter, and it will certainly please you now to learn that though there is no change in outward conditions, there is a change in us. It is no longer night in our souls; a great calm has descended upon us. And through darkness and mist we see the splendid light break, which beckons us with friendly hands. It is the light of our ideal! We know now that we shall never be able to cease from striving; it has grown to be part of our being--of our very existence. It is not only today or yesterday that we have felt and lived for our cause! We should have to be given new hearts, new brains, and new blood would have to be put into our veins before it would be possible for us to live for anything else.

I have thought and experienced all that you wrote me. Long ago, in the very beginning of our close association, I said many times to the sisters, I begged and implored them, to tear themselves loose from me, and not to allow themselves to depend so wholly upon me.

For who am I, presumptuous fool, to calmly lead and allow my little sisters to follow me? I am going on strange unknown ways, which will lead toward heaven, but must first take me down into hell. This last, much more easily than the first. Hell is near, and the way to it is lighted: but heaven is so far off and difficult to find.

"Yes," say my sisters, "But neither you nor any one else, could sow the seeds of ideas in us, so that they would bear fruit, unless the soil were suited to them. We are going together whether it be to heaven or to hell." My beautiful faithful little souls; no, they have learned nothing from me, for I have always been their pupil. Oh, they have taught me much.

We are one in ideas and feelings, everything has combined to make us one. We have been together all our lives; though you can take away the long years that we lived together but outwardly and count only these last intimate years.

Souls that have dwelt together for only one moment in great sympathy, can never wholly forget one another. But we have dwelt together in complete harmony for years. The years have added to the bond ten-fold.

We see the same things, hear the same things, day after day, and talk over everything with one another. We take delight in the same things, read books, magazines and newspapers together--discuss what we have read, and exchange opinions and ideas. Our parents see our intimacy with pleasure and encourage in every way. They are so pleased with the three-in-one idea that they are sometimes unjust to those outside, for the triple bond must come before everything else.

Our protectors as you know may marry us to whomsoever they will. The only circumstances in which they may not compel our obedience, is when the candidate for our hand is of a rank inferior to our own. Parents may not compel their daughters to marry a man who is beneath them in station. That is our only weapon against their arbitrary will.

The prospective bridegroom has only to go with the father or other male relative to the Panghoeloe[2] or some one else of the kind, and the wedding is over. The girl may know nothing whatever about it at the time.

Mother knew a woman, who refused to marry. She said she had rather die than marry the man her parents had chosen for her. Heaven was merciful, three months before the date set for the wedding the cholera took her away. Had she lived, no one would have been disturbed in the least by her refusal. She would have been married out of hand despite her protests.

There is nothing new under the sun; long ago in old times there were rebellious daughters too. It has always been preached to us that it was our duty to belong blindly to our parents. At the same time it has happened that when a young woman, submissive to their decree, was married, and afterwards unhappy, they would make sport of her and say: "Foolish one, why then did you marry? When you were married, you were willing, you wished to follow your husband; you must not complain now."

When I received your letter, we were about to go to a wedding. It is not customary for young girls to go to weddings and sit among the wedding guests, but Mamma graciously gave us her consent. If the bride's mother, an old friend of ours, had not pressed us to honour her with our presence at the great feast, we would have gladly stayed away. Before we started from our house, we saw the retinue of the bridegroom going toward the mosque; there was a downpour of rain, and the carriage in which the bridegroom sat was closed, as were the other carriages which followed it. Gold-striped banners were streaming over the aloen-aloen.[3] It was a melancholy-looking train; we were depressed by it. Indeed, it made us think of a funeral procession.

When we came to the home of the bride, we found her sitting in front of the quade (canopy) waiting for the bridegroom. Father went with us, too.

We sat on the ground close by the door; the eldest between the two little sisters. Incense and the perfume of flowers filled the room. Gamelan music, and the soft buzzing of voices reached us from outside. Gamelan broke into a song of welcome; the bridegroom was coming.

Two women seized the bride by the arms, lifted her up, and led her to meet the bridegroom, who was also being led toward her by two persons. After a few steps, they are opposite each other and bride and bridegroom give, each one to the other, a rolled-up sirrih[4] leaf. A few steps nearer and both sink to the ground. The bride prostrates herself on her knees before him, as a symbol of her subjection to the man. Flat before him, she makes a respectful sembah, and humbly kisses his foot! Again, a submissive sembah, and both rise and go hand in hand and seat themselves under the canopy.

"Joe, Joe," whispered Kleintje to me with dancing eyes and a roguish twist to her mouth. "He! I should go wild, if I could only see a bridal pair come smiling to meet each other and hand the sirrih leaf with eyes sparkling with joy. Of course, that would have to be among the younger generation--a bridal pair who had known each other beforehand. Would not that be fine--eh, Joe? Will it ever happen? I should go crazy with delight, if I could ever see it."

"It will come," I said mechanically, and smiled; but in that room, I felt as though my heart were being pierced with a dagger; and there at my side, with face beaming and dancing eyes, sat my sister.

A few days ago I opened a book by chance, it happened to be Multatuli, and the first thing I read was "Thugater." I still seem to see the words before my eyes: "Father said to her, that to know, and to understand, and to desire, was a sin for a girl."

Certainly the great, genial writer had little idea when he wrote that, what a deep impression it would make some day upon one of the daughters of the people whom he loved, and for whose welfare he sacrificed so much.

There was a woman of the people who became wife number two of a native official. The first wife, who was not quite right in her head, after a little went away from him, leaving behind a whole troop of children. Number two became the official wife and was a painstaking, loving mother to her step-children; she was very diligent and worked hard to save something from the income of her husband, so that later they would be able to educate his children. And it was thanks to her that the sons turned out so well. Now I come to the thanks. Once when her husband had gone to the city he came back home late at night, and called his wife outside. A guest had come with him for whom she must care, and make ready a room. The guest was a young woman, and when her husband told her that the guest was his wife and that she, his older wife, must thenceforth share everything with her, at first she was stunned, for she did not understand. She only stood and looked at him. But when the frightful truth penetrated to her brain, she sank without a single word to the ground. When she came to herself again, she rose to her feet, and asked, standing, for a writing of divorcement from her husband. At first he did not wish to understand her, but she persisted till at last he yielded and gave her the requested paper.

That very night she went out of the house on foot through fields and forests, to her parents' house in the city. How she got there she did not know. When she could think again, she was with her family and they told her that she had been ill for a long time.

Later, after she had recovered, she looked at the letter which she had forced from her husband on that terrible night, and saw that she was really not divorced at all. The letter merely contained her description and the information that she had run away from him.

He had no idea in the world of giving her back her freedom. Later she became reconciled to him. The other wife left the house and went to live in another dwelling, while she resumed her old rule of the household. On that frightful night, she had sworn a solemn oath, she swallowed dust, and vowed never, never, to raise her hand to deprive another of her rights. She had done it herself ignorantly as a child; when she was fourteen years of age, her parents had married her to her husband. She did not know what she was doing, she belonged only to her parents, who used often to beat her at their pleasure. She knew now what a hell pain it was to be pressed from the side of a husband by another. She has remained true to her oath.

Not long ago her husband married a niece to some one who already had a wife; she defied the wrath of her husband and refused persistently to have anything to do with the wedding preparations, and the wedding was not held in her house.

We know her very well, and have great respect for her. She has made herself what she is by her own efforts, she has worked hard and improved herself, though she has never had an opportunity to study.

She has taught herself to read, and has worked her way through several books with profit.

We are sometimes astonished at her conversation, the result of deep thinking, and also of a sound understanding. She is truly an unusual woman (it would be well if there were more like her) who has had neither education nor opportunities, but who thinks and feels as we because she has known suffering.

Her history is not unique; there are many like it. But where shall I end if I once begin to tell you of the misery of the native women? Every one whose eyes are not blind and whose ears are not deaf, knows what goes on in our world. Pluck the heart from our bodies and the brains from our head if you wish to change us.

Long before you quoted from Zangwill's "Dreams of the Ghetto" to me Kleintje said almost the same thing, though of course in different words. We were eating tarts, or something of the kind, when little sister came running up and wished to have some too. There was no clean plate for her, and Kardinah said, "Eat off Joe's plate and then you will become clever like her," whereupon Kleintje said solemnly, "No, I will not do it; I want to remain stupid; to be clever is not to be happy--not for every one. It is a misfortune to be able to think and not to be able to act; to be able to know, to feel and to wish, and not to be free. I want to be only stupid."