Part 17

We were still children when an inspector of native education asked us to write little narratives of native child life which were to appear in small illustrated books. We had not the least idea when we wrote the sketches, that some day the pioneer of the noble movement in Holland to give the children good literature, would ask us to bring a little stone for the building of that tower, which is rising so high in the pure air, a tower full of clear, undimmed windows, looking on all the expanse of Heaven--which she is erecting for her loved ones--the youth, the men of the future. We are busy now collecting fairly tales, fables, games and songs for her. It will not be easy to write down the fairy tales and the little games. In the first place though we love music very much, to our great sorrow we know nothing about it, because we have never had an opportunity to study it. The greatest difficulty lies in this, we have an entirely different musical scale from you, and in it there are chords for which we seek in vain in European music.[3]

Only last week, we talked with a man who has spent twenty years collecting songs and poetry of all kinds among the Indian people. He has collected all conceivable forms, even rhymes and jingles. Now he is so anxious to have some Javanese songs in his collection. But so far, he has not been able to write them into music on account of the difficulty of which I spoke.

But gamelan music is very difficult, and the children's songs and rhymes are simple. We tried some of them on the piano and they went quite well. It would seem as though an invisible telephone cable ran from here to Lali Djawa and back again; otherwise we do not see how it can be that so many things of which you spoke in your letter were already answered in ours before we received it. In my letter which crossed yours, you will find many of your questions answered. We had even written you of the songs, games and fairy tales. It will be so unfortunate if we cannot give the songs, for the charm lies in the music. As children, we did not enjoy our fairy tales, if the narrator could not sing.

We have been having a heated controversy about the influence of books. Our adversary thought that idealism was all nonsense; poetry was silly, a book nothing--not of the slightest value.

We were delighted the next morning, when we opened the _Amsterdammer_ to find your delightful article on the influence of books. We are novices, triflers, our judgment is worth nothing; but now we have an authority on the subject.

He is a very peculiar man, and it interests him to strike at our innermost convictions. He likes to try to analyze our deductions. He is a man of many good qualities, but so weak. Through him, we see still more plainly why a child should first of all be educated in strength of will. Without strength, all other good qualities are of little worth.

I cannot tell you how thankful we are that you have shown us the way to true happiness--to true freedom--to God. Those who serve God are free--they are bound to no man. To be dependent upon others is to be in bondage to them. Where is true happiness? It is not far away, but it is so difficult to find the road thither, we cannot go by tram, by horse or by boat, and no gold can pay the cost of the journey. It is hard to find the way, and we must pay the fare in tears and heart's blood and meditation. Where is the road? It is in ourselves. In the world, we find much that delights us, that transports us, so that we think we have found the long sought happiness. But even as the thought comes, we find by bitter experience that what we hold to our hearts, is empty dross.

True, lasting happiness dwells within, and is called soul's peace. We have learned of that from you. God is jealous, it is said; He will not suffer us to pray to any other gods but Him, and He punishes with bitter disillusion those who create gods for themselves, and pray to them with reverence.

So we think, "Thou shalt have no other gods before me," a command of love. In it, there lies an earnest admonition that man is man and but a fallible creature. Alas, if that commandment were only understood, so much suffering would be spared us.

Mother says that she would like to meet you; to thank you personally for the miracle that you have wrought in her children in opening their hearts to the Father of Love. You ask what had turned us into unbelievers; The things that we had seen lurking under the mantle of religion, and Oh, the intolerance of so many strong believers.

We were children; how can one understand the thoughts of a child? We did not know, could not understand that it is man who does evil, using God's name to cover his wicked deeds. We asked and still ask for that matter, not what is your belief? but what is the conduct of your life? Righteousness was our God. Now we know that God and righteousness are one.

* * * * *

We are reading a beautiful poem; it is in the flower-tongue. There is no word for poetry in our language, so we say flower-tongue--and is it not expressive? All our books are in poetic metre and can be either read or sung. Do you remember the cool, bright tropical evenings, when everything was quiet, and the stillness was only broken by the rustling of the wind through the tops of the cocoa-nut trees? When the fresh evening breeze brought you on its breath the sweet perfume of kemoening, tjempaka, melati. Did a dreamy song never reach you then? the song of a Javanese, who sings to his family and to his neighbours--of love--heroic deeds, and glittering pageantry--of beauty and of wisdom; of mighty men and women, princes and princesses of the long ago. It is that loveliest hour when the Javanese, tired from the hard day's work, seeks rest in song, dreaming all his cares away, wholly lost in the shining far-away past, whither his song leads him. "The Javanese are a people who live in the past," a young friend of ours says rightly. "They are lost in the blissful dreams of their eternal sleep." That is true, but we are alive, we must live; and life always goes forward.

Our friend says, too: "Your people must be awakened to a practical realization of the outside world." Many things that are dear to us will then be driven into the background, but should we for that reason, delay the awakening?

Dreams are splendid, but what would become of us if we dreamed for ever? We must make ourselves nobler, by trying to make our dreams real.

There is so much charm in the Javanese people. You have been the means of making us realize it anew in the last few days. This collecting of fables brings us into contact with many kinds of people, and it is a great pleasure to find out their ideas. They tell them to us in simple language, but they tell them so graciously, and we are moved by their truth and wisdom. I wish that I could send you some of their beautiful thoughts in our own soft musical tongue. Translated they are no longer what they were.

We tell you too much about our people, do we not? But what a question, it answers itself. We know that you are glad to know of them and that you love them sincerely. We believe with you that the essential thing is the spirit, and not the world. We are so rich, and so happy with the spirit friends that we have, is it selfish to want to learn from each one of them? To improve ourselves by correspondence with those who nourish and broaden our minds?

We think it abominable to receive and to have to answer letters about nothing, epistles that make one ask "Why were they written?" We are certainly privileged to be in touch with so many superior minds.

Deep in the heart of Celebes we have a noble friend. We admire him sincerely for his great work. It is always a holiday for us when we receive a letter from Dr. Adriani. His letters are as interesting as they are learned. We met him when we were visiting the Abendanons. Mevrouw brought us together, knowing how much we should value the acquaintance. When we are distressed by the heartlessness of others, the mere thought of him is a consolation. The selfishness of people hurts us; often it is boundless. It is such a delight to meet now and then, among luke-warm or indifferent people, many without heart or head either, a being who is all enthusiasm and heroic strength.

* * * * *

We are so sorry that you did not know us in the full glow of our triple bond.

We were three souls welded together--one in thought and feeling--living side by side in life as sisters. Storms passed over the young heads, storms raged in the young hearts!

I think of your "In order to reach our ideals, we must lay down many illusions." From the death of young spring blossoms, the strong fruit ripens. It is so with human life--is it not? From the death of young illusions, sometimes mature ones rise up, which ripen and bring forth fruit.

We have laid down a great illusion. It was a bitter, miserable hour; we buried it in our heart's blood, but still we felt as though we were being rushed along as by a river, which was carrying us forward to fresh, strong life.

We know that many tears must be shed to water the young fruit and bring it to full growth. We are beginning now to understand what Dr. Abendanon meant when he told us that through his wife. What was formerly dark to us has meaning now. Yes, we shall only be able to move slowly. The journey is long and the way steep and difficult. The idea of personal suffering does not trouble us, but if it should react upon ourselves, and in that way, impede our cause, it would be terrible.

I think of a certain evening not long ago, an acquaintance took both of us to a concert at the play-house at Semarang; it was the first time that we two had ever, in our whole lives, been alone in the midst of a great sea of humanity, without sister, without father, without mother; both of us absolutely alone, with all those strange faces. We had the same thought: "So shall our life be in the future; we two alone on the great sea of Life! But we are comforted, there is a God who will watch over us."

On the twentieth of this month, we were at Tandjong Priok, in thought. We saw the _Willem II._ steam away from the coast of Java, carrying as a precious freight, Java's great friend and warm supporter, to the distant Netherlands. He is already known in the Assembly of that country, so that when he speaks in the interests of the millions of children in this land, his words will have authority, and weight. Take him safely _Willem II._ for the sake of these lands, and for the sake of his dear family.

And now, true best counsellor, our highly honoured and dearly loved friend, we thank you many times for your letter. It did us much good in every way. It encouraged us to earnest meditation-strengthened us and opened up new vistas of thought to us.

[1] To Mevrouw Van Kol.

[2] Bendoro means master--It is also used to women of high rank.

[3] Jules Le Garcq says of Javanese music that it is full of charm, and produces a sweet melody incomprehensible to European ears, and that far from being barbaric it makes one realize that it is an art "très difficile, très compliqué, très délicat."

XLVII

_September 2nd, 1902._[1]

It is presumptuous for us to play "mother," and with children who are older than we; but what does age matter? Every one needs love, the grey-beard as well as the child.

Should a woman only exclusively through marriage be able to come to her right--to the full awakening of the best gifts of her soul? because the highest and most sacred glory of woman is motherhood. But then must a woman be obliged to have a child of her own in order to be a true mother--a being who is all love and sacrifice? If that is true, how pitifully shallow is the idea of the world that it is only a piece of oneself that one can love better than oneself. There are so many who are called mothers only because they have brought children into the world, but beyond that they are not worthy of the name. A woman that gives all the love that is in her heart to others, with no thought of herself is, in a spiritual sense-mother. We set the spiritual mother higher than the physical.

We hope and pray fervently that later if it is granted us to realize our ideals, and we stand at the head of a school, our children will not call us "mother" as a matter of form, but because they feel that we are mothers.

* * * * *

We hope that Anneka will find cordial, affectionate people at Buitenzorg, who will make up to the poor lonely child for the lack of a mother and of a home of her own. Anneka lived our Javanese life with us here. I wish that you could have taken a peep at the little corner behind the door, where Anneka sat on the ground with us in such a sisterly manner. One evening she sat by us in our chamber, at the low table where I am now writing; she sewed, we wrote. There was still a fourth in the circle--a friend of ours. She read aloud or rather sang to us. You know of course, that all of our books are written in poetic metre, flower-tongue as we say, and they are meant to be sung.

Doors and windows were open. Outside the chamber there bloomed a tjempaka tree; its perfume came to us on the soft wind. The voice was gentle and tender, the song was sweet to our listening ears. It carried our souls back to the far distant past, to the golden age of barbaric splendour, and of men and women who were wise and beautiful and strong.

We bit our pen-holders absently--much oftener than we made them fly over the white paper, and amid these wholly Javanese surroundings, there between brown children of the Sunny Land, sat a pale daughter of the West. Oh how gladly would we have you, even so, among us.

We have learned the songs too, and if we were not bashful, we would sing and dream before you.

Yesterday Annie did something typically Javanese. She was so anxious to go away from Japara, we said to her "Ask the help of the Soenan of Kantingan, promise him an offering of flowers, if your wish comes true." So she did.

Day before yesterday evening we spoke of it, and the next morning she went with us to make her offering. We went there with a band of priests to the holy grave, and we took flowers and incense with us.

Anneka went with us into the building over the grave and sat with us on the ground at the foot of the tomb. Incense burned, and a mystic buzzing rose at first softly but gradually louder from the priestly choir. It was solemn and impressive. We sat with lowered heads and listened to the murmur of the mystic prayer, while blue clouds of incense rose upwards.

One of the priests creeping forward on the ground brought Anneka's flowers and laid them reverently on the grave of the Soenan, and after that on the other graves. Next to me I heard a snickering. It was Anneka! Barefooted as a mark of reverence, she had come with us into the building. For it is our custom to look upon the dead as holy, and to show them reverence.

We then went to the little stream behind the churchyard to wash our feet. We asked the priest for Heaven's blessing for Anneka.

Dearest, we should so love to have you here, so that you could live our native life with us. There is so much that is touching in our Javanese life; especially in the honour that we show to our dead and to our parents. Nothing ever happens in our lives of any importance, either of joy or of sorrow, that we do not think of our dead. Anneka will remember Japara when she sits high and dry at Buitenzorg, although she may be a thousand times better off there than here. They that have known Japara; who have seen its soul, can never forget it. They must think of it again and again, whether it is with love or whether it is with hate.

Yesterday at midday we went to the wood-carving works; it was very interesting. There were fifteen people, men and apprentices, at work. The work they do is severely simple but it is in the highest degree effective.

Sister Roekmini must naturally go to work with them, and she sat down with the wood-carvers on a bench as naturally as though she had been there all along.

We have made the acquaintance of Frits Reuter; he is a writer who draws one's heart. He is so wholesome and spontaneous. What do you say to reading one book through from seven o'clock in the evening to three o'clock in the morning? It is not sensible, but it can be forgiven when one is in good company. If it was your intention by your present, to make us love your great poet of the people, then you should certainly be satisfied with your work.

We have also enjoyed Vosmaer's[2] beautiful "Inwijding." It was our first acquaintance with this Netherlander, and we thank you heartily for introducing us to him; it is one of the pleasantest introductions of our lives. After reading "Inwijding," we received a book on Greek mythology, with pictures of all the gods and goddesses; it is delightful to look at the plates and read the descriptions after "Inwijding." Oh! to see all that beauty with one's own eyes, and to experience the emotion that thrilled the souls of Sietska and Frank. No, no, we must not desire so much. We are only thankful that there is some one, endowed with the power of words, who has made it live and breath, and that we can understand his language.

[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

[2] Carel Vosmaer. Poet and art critic. Author of "Amazone," and the translator of "Homer" into Dutch hexameters.

XLVIII

_October 11th, 1902._[1]

I feel some anxiety as to who will carry on our work in directing the wood carving after we have gone away. Our little sisters are too young, and there is the financial responsibility as well. If a European comes here, naturally our artists will be exploited merely for his own profit; the one who devotes himself to this work should be disinterested and have in his heart a love for art and a love for Java.

* * * * *

The world says that everything spontaneous must be suppressed, and everything that differs from it, is necessarily soiled and smirched. In all ages, the way of the idealist has been hard. No deviation from the set type is suffered. Every one who is not like the rest of the world, is tormented all his life, unless he throws away his own coat, and in its stead draws on the coat of custom.

* * * * *

I do not want to promise you anything, Stella, for I am not sure that I should be able to keep my promise. Do you think Modjowarno so frightful? Which would you prefer, that we should go crazy here at home, or that we seek healing for the wounds in our souls there? If we are disappointed in our plans, we are determined that we will not remain any longer cloistered and imprisoned here for petty, futile reasons. We will not submit to conditions which we detest and despise with all our hearts. The enemy abroad does not frighten us, but the enemy in our own country eats into our souls. Nothing can help us but God.

Now do not say that you will be cast down and sad, when you receive a letter telling you to address me at Modjowarno. The idea has no terror for me. It is true that we shall go there with lacerated hearts, but that will not be the fault of Modjowarno, and even there, all will not be lost, Stella. You have often encouraged me to use my pen--I shall still have that, and there I shall have nothing to lose and nothing to venture save myself. Here I should venture much, if I said what I really think. If I became a teacher, I should be striking my own calling dead, because those whom I had offended would gird on their armour and hunt me down.

I have already said that we would not go to Modjowarno, save with deeply wounded souls. Do you know the effect that would have upon my pen? Nothing speaks so to the heart like suffering. And even I have made eyes grow wet. You know me too well, I hope, to accuse me of vanity when I say that. It is only to show you how very much the worth of a pen rises when one has heart's blood for ink.

A few months ago, some one wholly unknown to me burst out crying when she read some words of mine. She felt how I had suffered when the words flowed from my pen. She was so affected that she wished to begin work at once for the alleviation of the misery of which I had written. The next day she even offered to help us; alas, only to withdraw the offer a few days later, through the working of reason.

People think that they are pleasing me, when they assure me that I write "splendidly." What does it amount to? I want what I write to make a lasting impression, Stella, and I can only do that when I have had experience. When my heart has been written upon, then--only then--will what I say be of worth.

[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.

XLIX

_October 12th, 1902._[1]

During the last year I often heard something about myself, which distresses me. I am a coquette. Do not spare me, but answer outright; am I a coquette? and if so, in what way? I am seriously troubled, for I dislike anything that is inconstant.

Some one, no slanderer, says that I speak with my eyes. Is that true? I have asked my sister to watch me well, and to tell me what they see in me that is strange, what there is in the play of my eyes. And my truth-loving little sister says--she is always conscientious--that my eyes dance as if they were saying much when I talk long, never mind with whom. Believe me, when I say that I do not do it intentionally; that I have no thought of pleasing; and if what she says is true, it is unconscious and in spite of myself.

It is a strange sensation, when one has always thought oneself a serious, candid girl, to hear all at once that one is a coquettish creature. I was astonished and distressed; I had never given the matter a thought, and would not be guilty of such conduct knowingly.

I am told that I must modestly (hypocritically) cast down my eyes. I will not do that; I will look men, as well as women, straight in the eyes, not cast down my own before them. I know very well that we shall be made to promise, perhaps under oath, when we go from here, that we will not bring to our families the terrible disgrace of sharing our love and sorrow with a European; on that point they can be at peace.

We would never think of such a thing; inevitably it would be wreaking destruction upon the whole cause. For our own sakes, we could not; we, who wish to set ourselves up as examples.

You know how very little I care for what "they say," but in this case it shall never be said, "There, you have the whole thing; see what comes of it. When a man gives his daughters European educations, they marry Europeans." That would do incalculable injury to the cause, and that may not be.

And yet actually what do we do but share our love and sorrow with Europeans? What am I doing at this moment? Do not Europeans live with us in our inmost hearts? And do we not share the inner life of Europeans?

Much, yes everything can be taken away from me, but not my pen, that will always be mine. Do not let them provoke us too much, the most enduring patience can give way. We may be driven to the use of that weapon, even though it should rebound and wound ourselves. You may be assured that we will make good use of it if we go to Modjowarno.

We long for comfort from our true friends, we have grown cold; we want to warm our frozen hearts on your hearts. We complain about the egoism of others, but what of ourselves? It is pure egotism to share our pain and suffering with others, and to ask for love when we know that for us love is inseparable from sorrow.

Do you not think we have gone back sadly? We have grown hard and unfeeling, and we are often afraid of ourselves.

O God, give us strength, help and support us; and from you, dear, I ask forgiveness for the sorrow I have caused you by this letter. But to be silent is not good--it is not honest. Forgive me, and love your brown children.

[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

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