Part 3

I feel my powerlessness all too well, Stella. You would burst out laughing if you could look over my shoulder and read this little sheet of paper. What a crazy idea of mine, is it not? That I who know nothing, have learned nothing, should wish to venture upon a literary career? Still though every one else should laugh at me, I know that you will not--I will not think that for a moment. It is indeed a desperate undertaking, but "he who does not dare, does not win," is my motto. Forward! Dare mightily and with strength. Three-fourths of the world belongs to the strong.

You ask me how I came to be placed between four thick walls. You certainly thought of a cell or something of that kind. No, Stella, my prison was a large house, with grounds around it. But around those grounds there was a high wall and that held me a prisoner. Never mind how splendid a house and garden may be if one may never go beyond them, it is stifling. I remember how often in dumb despair, I would press my body against the fast closed gate and the cold stones. Whatever direction I took, at the end of every walk there was always a stone wall, or a locked door.

Of late Mevrouw Ovink often says to me, "Child, Child, have we done well to let you come forth from the high walls of the kaboepaten?[2] Would it not have been better if we had let you remain there? What will come of it now? What of the future?"

And when she sees us drawing and painting she cries full of distress: "Dear children, is there nothing else for you but this?" No, the only fortunate thing, the best thing that could have happened to us, is that we three were thrust out into the light. Luckily, I am optimistic by nature, and do not quickly let my head hang. If I cannot become what I so much desire to be, then I would rather be something, if only a kitchen-maid. You will think now, that I am a "genius" in cooking. My family and friends need not worry about my future, do you not agree with me? For a good kitchen-maid is always in demand, and can always get along.

The official salaries in Holland seem small compared with those in India. Yet they are always complaining here, about the small salaries. In India too one is entitled to a pension after twenty years' service, and the clergy after only ten years. India is an El Dorado for the officials, and yet many Hollanders speak of it as a "horrible Ape-land." I get so infernally mad when I hear them speak of "Horrible India." They forget all too often that this "horrible Ape-land" fills many empty pockets with gold.

A change will come in our whole native world--the turning point is fore-ordained; it is coming. But when will it be? That is the great question. We cannot hasten the hour of revolution. For it is only we who have rebellious thoughts in this wilderness, this dark distant land, beyond which there is no land. My friends here say that we shall act wisely if we do nothing but sleep for a hundred years. When we awakened, Java would be more as we would have her.

"Work among the people of India" I know. Mevrouw Zuylen-Tromp sent Father the book, hoping to arouse his interest. But he would rather interest himself in a book about the native woman; I had thought of that myself. I have much to tell about Javanese women, but I am still too young, and have had so little, so pitifully little, experience with life. The cause for which I would speak is to me too earnest and too sacred to be approached lightly. I cannot write now as I wish, but I know that when I have suffered more it will be different. After a few years I shall have had a more comprehending insight into much that I would know and many thoughts that now run darkly through my brain will have grown clear.

I cannot tell you anything of the Mohammedan law, Stella. Its followers are forbidden to speak of it with those of another faith. And, in truth, I am a Mohammedan only because my ancestors were. How can I love a doctrine which I do not know--may never know? The Koran is too holy to be translated into any language whatever. Here no one speaks Arabic. It is customary to read from the Koran; but what is read no one understands! To me it is a silly thing to be obliged to read something without being able to understand it. It is as though I were compelled to read an English book, and the whole thing should go through my head without my being able to comprehend the meaning of a single word. If I wished to know and understand our religion, I should have to go to Arabia to learn the language. Nevertheless, one can be good without being pious. Is not that true, Stella?

Religion is intended as a blessing to mankind--a bond between all the creatures of God. They should be as brothers and sisters, not because they have the same human parents, but because they are all children of one Father, of Him who is enthroned in the heavens above. Brothers and sisters must love one another, help, strengthen and support one another. O God! sometimes I wish that there had never been a religion, because that which should unite mankind into one common brotherhood has been through all the ages a cause of strife, of discord, and of bloodshed. Members of the same family have persecuted one another because of the different manner in which they worshipped one and the same God. Those who ought to have been bound together by the tenderest love have turned with hatred from one another. Differences of Church, albeit in each the same word, God, is spoken, have built a dividing wall between two throbbing hearts. I often ask myself uneasily: is religion indeed a blessing to mankind? Religion, which is meant to save us from our sins, how many sins are committed in thy name?

I have read "Max Havelaar,"[3] though I do not know "Wijs mij de plaats waar ik gezaaid heb!"[4] I shall look for it for I think much, very much, of Multatuli.

I will tell you another time of the position of the people, and of the ruling classes among us. I have written too much already, and that is a subject which demands no small space.

What do we speak at home? What a question, Stella, dear. Naturally, our language is Javanese. We speak Malayish with strange people who are Easterners, either Malays, Moors, Arabs, or Chinese, and Dutch with Europeans.

O Stella, how I laughed when I read your question: "Would your parents disapprove if you should embrace them heartily?" Why, I have yet to give my parents, or my brothers and sisters, the first kiss![5] Kissing is not customary among the Javanese. Only children of from one to three, four, five, or six are kissed. We never kiss one another. You are astonished at that! But it is true. Only our young Holland friends kiss us, and we kiss them back; that has only been recently.

At first we loved to have them kiss us, but never kissed them in return. We have only learned to kiss since we have been such friends with Mevrouw Ovink. When she would embrace us, she would ask us to kiss her. At first we found it queer, and acquitted ourselves awkwardly. Does this seem strange to you? No matter how much I should love one of my Dutch friends, it would never come into my head to kiss her without being asked. You ask why? Because I do not know whether she would like it. It is pleasant for us to press a soft white cheek with our lips, but whether the possessor of that pretty cheek also finds it pleasant to feel a dark face against hers, is another question. We had rather let people think us heartless, for of our own accord we would never embrace.

If as you say I am in no way behind many Dutch girls, it is principally the work of Mevrouw Ovink, who used to talk to us as though we were her own sisters. Intercourse with this cultured, well-bred Dutch lady had a great influence upon the little brown girls. And now Moesje knows very well that though time and distance separate them, the hearts of her daughters will always belong to her. Father had promised us--in reality, Mevrouw Ovink made him give his word of honour--to let us go to Djombang. Mijnheer Ovink will take us there by and by. We love them so much, have so much love for our "Father" and "Mother." We miss them sadly. I cannot even now realize that they are actually gone from us. There was so little restraint between us. We lived all the time so cordially together.

[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.

[2] A regent's palace.

[3] Max Havelaar of de Koffieveilingen der Nederlandsche Handelsmaatschnappij, by E.D. Dekker (Multatuli), published first in Amsterdam in 1860.

[4] "Show me the place where I have sown."

[5] Havelock Ellis says that the kiss is unknown throughout Eastern Asia. In Japan, as in Java, mothers kiss their babies; but Chinese mothers sometimes frighten their children by threatening to give them the white man's kiss. See also Coltman, the Chinese, p. 90, p. 99.

IV

_November 1899._[1]

O dearest, dearest Mevrouwtje, what a delightful Sunday we had yesterday!

Father went out with my little brother, and after awhile they came back home. Brother, with great excitement, ran to me and said, "O sister, there is a man-of-war in the harbour; all the streets are filled with sailors, and two of them have come home with us, they are with Father now."

At the word "warship," we sprang up as though we had been shot, and before brother had finished speaking, we flew to our room to make ready. We saw two gentlemen dressed in white, come hesitating--through the grounds. After a little while, we saw them sitting with Pa in the middle gallery. Later, a boy came to us, saying that we must go to Father, which we did with the greatest willingness. One, two, three, and we had slipped on our best kabaais,[2] and a second later we were sitting in rocking-chairs talking to two officers from the _Edie_. I do not know how it came about, but we were immediately at our ease and spoke to the gentlemen as though we had known them for years. But how did these people happen to come to kaboepaten? I will explain that to you. Papa went, as I have said, for a little drive; he met five gentlemen walking, three of them turned another way, but these two had followed Papa's carriage in to the kaboepaten. They thought (the gentlemen were new to Java) that the way the carriage took was a public road, and our house a fortress or something of the kind.

Papa sent a servant to ask the gentlemen if they wished to see him. They were embarrassed, naturally, because they had made such a mistake and followed some one to his own house. What would they do now? They did not find it pleasant by any means, because they did not understand our language, and spoke only very bad, broken Malayish. Papa put an end to this awkward situation by going to meet them himself, and addressing them in Dutch. Embarrassment was at an end. They would come with pleasure into the house.

It turned out that one of them was a relative of some one whom Papa knew well. I do not remember to have ever felt so much at my ease with an utter stranger. I did not think once of the fact that I had never seen these people before, and had not known of their existence five minutes ago. It is strange how with sailors one feels at home right away.

Our hearts have always been set upon the sea; everything that concerns it interests us. You know well what a delight it is to us to be taken out even in a little row boat. We love the sea; you remember the time when I lay half-dead in the bow of the opium skiff, even then I found it pleasant to be upon such a bed? If I were a boy, I should not think twice, but would become a sailor at once.

Imagine to yourself Father saying to the gentlemen, "My daughters would be so pleased if they could be permitted to go on board."

Father knows everything that goes on in our hearts. Father does not tell us so, yet I am certain of it. Now and then Papa tells one or the other of us precisely what we have been thinking; something that we had kept to ourselves and never told to any one. It is without doubt, because Father loves us so much, and we so love him. Every now and then he discovers something, and lays it bare, that had been in the bottom of my heart, and of which I had thought no one except myself had the slightest idea. Does not that show true kinship of soul?

If I were more superstitious, I should certainly think that Papa could read thoughts.

But I am telling you now of the pleasant Sunday morning, and not of the secret telephone-cable that runs from our hearts to that of our dearest Father.

The officers regretted so much that the _Edie_ would not remain longer in our harbour. It would have been such a pleasure to them to have had us on board. The _Edie_ must go to look for reefs on Karimoen Djawa, though the commander thought Japara interesting. Both gentlemen were going to do everything in their power to persuade the Commandant to come back; for if the _Edie_ set out from Soerabaja on Monday, either Saturday or Sunday she could be back at Japara. If fortune should bring the _Edie_ here on Saturday, then they will let us know of their presence by letting loose their fire-mouths (cannon). I have no idea that they will, but still it would be above all things pleasant if the boat should come again.

I told the gentlemen that if they passed Japara again, they must break a screw or something, near our coast, so that the ship would be obliged to lay up in our harbour for repairs.

When the officers had gone, and we were back in our room, we thought it had been a dream. And truly it was as though we had dreamed. So suddenly, so unexpectedly, had they appeared to us, and again as suddenly had they vanished. A very pleasant happening--do you not think so too? I still have to laugh whenever I think of that funny adventure.

O little Mother, dearest Mevrouwtje, I wish that you were back with us. Your daughters miss you so much. We long for the pleasant days that we spent with you to come again: the splendid times that we used to have in your dear little sitting-room, where you would read to us from great books, and where we spoke of so much, the memory of which shall always remain with us. I miss the intimate talks with you, when I used to tell my dear little mother all the rebellious thoughts that came into my head, and laid bare the feelings of my restless heart. When I was in a rebellious mood, I had but to see the love light in your face, and I was again the happy, careless child, that, in overflowing good spirits, could sing: "Whatever Heaven to me shall send, I'll set my shoulders bravely under."

Mevrouwtje, you gave us too much care; spoiled us too much. Now we do nothing but wish for those happy days to come back. And although we long for you, yet we hope that the journey to Djombang will be put off as long as possible. Why? We know--we feel, that at Djombang, we shall see each other for the last time. Seeing you again will mean farewell for good. You will not come to Japara again, and we shall never be able to go to you. For that reason, let the journey be put off as long as possible. It is splendid to have a pleasure to look forward to; so we should like to prolong the feeling of anticipation. Once more the joy of meeting again, and then--all the prettiness will be over. No it will not be over even then, the memory will be with us.

We shall still be happy as long as you think of us and love us. You know very well, dear little Mother, that love is nothing but egoism. I think there is nothing finer than to be able to call a happy smile to a loved mouth--to see the sunshine break over another's face. Nothing is more splendid than to have a pair of dear eyes look at one full of love and happiness; then it is that one feels guilty for that very joy. How pleasant that Kokki also remembers us.

[1] To Mevrouw M.C.E. Ovink-Soer.

[2] A Javanese woman's dress consists of a sarong which is draped to form a skirt, and a kabaja, or jacket shaped garment. The kabaja is of Dutch origin and its use is a concession to European ideas of modesty, as formerly the upper part of the body was left bare.

V[1]

_12th January, 1900._

To go to Europe! Till my last breath that shall always be my ideal. If I could only make myself small enough to slip into an envelope then I would go with this letter to you, Stella, and to my dearest best brother, and near--Hush, not another word! It is not my fault, Stella, if now and then I write nonsense. The gamelan[2] in the pendopo[3] could speak to you better than I. Now it is playing a lovely air. It is like no other song--no melody, each note is so soft, so tender, so vaguely thrilling, so changing--but ah! how compelling, how bitterly beautiful: that is no tinkling of glass, of copper, of wood; it is the voices of men's souls that speak to me; now they are complaining, now sighing, and now merrily laughing. And my soul soars with the murmuring pure silver tones on high, on high, to the isles of blue light, to the fleecy clouds, and towards the shining stars--deep low tones are rising now and the music leads me through dark dales, down steep ravines, through sombre woods on into dense wildernesses, and my soul shivers and trembles within me with anguish and pain and sorrow.

I have heard "Ginonding" a dozen times, still now that the gamelan is silent I cannot recall a single note, everything is driven from my memory, the sad and lovely air is gone that made me so inexpressibly happy, and so deeply melancholy at the same time. I can never hear "Ginonding" without deep emotion, the first chords of the splendid prelude, and I am lost. Sometimes I do not wish to listen, it is too sorrowful, yet I must hearken to the murmuring voices, which tell me of the past, and of the future. The breath of its thrilling silver strains blows away the veil which covers the secrets of what is to be, and clear as though it were today visions of the future rise to my mind. A shivering goes through me, for I see dark sombre figures. I try to close my eyes, but they remain wide open, and at my feet there yawns a dizzy abyss. But I look up, and a blue Heaven arches above me, and golden sun-beams play with the fleecy white clouds, and in my heart it is again light.

There! Have I not convinced you what a foolish, mad creature I am? What silly thoughts, but we will not excuse ourselves to each other, Stella. Enough of that! I will now try to talk sensibly like a rational human being.

My sunny land which you so long to see, has been of late anything but sunny. There have been terrible rainstorms every day, and Sunday the Japara river rose from its banks, villages were flooded, and even the city itself was inundated by the rushing waters.

Ever since morning it has rained in torrents, and the wind has shaken our house frightfully. Outside several trees have blown down, the thick branches were broken off as though they had been match stems, and nothing remains now of the splendid koolblanda trees, but two cold, bare trunks. How terribly the kampongs around must have suffered, whole roofs have been torn from the houses. Today Papa has gone out on a tour of inspection, and to succour an outlying district where many villages are under water. Papa is sore pressed in these days. First it was storm, then an earthquake, now again storm. A colossal randoe tree was blown across a public highway, striking two passersby; they were taken from under it ground to pieces. A whole day, and a whole night we listened to the raging and the roaring of the wind. Poor Klein Scheveningen, the storm has wrought frightful havoc there. The way to the bath house is entirely covered with seething water, and the beach has disappeared, the insatiable sea has covered it. This afternoon, if it is not raining hard, I shall ask Father's permission to go and see it.

A week ago we were on Klein Scheveningen, we stood on a great rock to watch the surging of the waves. We were so intent upon the imposing spectacle that we did not see how the onrushing waters were covering our rock. Not until the children on the shore called to us affrighted did we realize that we were surrounded by a raging surf. We waded back to the children through water up to our knees.

Some time ago you asked me about the position of the "little man"[4] among us, but I had already written you so much that I put the question aside because it could not be answered in a few words. I wished, however, to come back to it another time, and so I come to it now; I shall then have answered the whole of your last letter.

I thank God that I can answer "No" to your question as to whether the condition of our people is as sad as Multatuli has described it. No, the history of Saïdjah[5] and Adinda belongs to the past. There may be hunger sometimes among the people, but that is not the fault of their rulers. The rulers cannot be held responsible for the long droughts when the "little man" needs rain so much for his fields, nor can they be blamed for the floods that the clouds send to destroy the harvest. And when the rice harvest fails, whether it be through a plague of insects, or through floods, or through the misfortunes which the long continued "East Wind"[6] brings, then all the people who suffer from these calamities have their taxes remitted by the Government, and in time of famine, money and food are doled out to them. If the fields are over-run by a plague of mice, the Government offers rewards for the destruction of the pest. If the "West Wind," as now, causes the rising of the waters in the rivers, and the dikes break, the rulers do all that is possible to mitigate the distress.

Last year a fishing village lay for a whole week under water; day and night Father remained at the scene of the disaster. Out of special funds that were at the disposal of the Government, the breaks in the dikes were restored for some kilometers. But who was to give back to the people what the water had taken away from them? And what of the fish in the rivers destroyed by the floods?

Then you have Demak in my Uncle's jurisdiction; that country could never be brought to a condition of prosperity, whatever one might do. From one remote valley to the other the East Wind dries up the rivers, and then the West Wind drowns the land with water. The Government has spent tons of gold to give water to the land in the dry season, and also in building heavy barriers against floods in the wet season, but so far without result. Splendid canals have been dug, which have provided work for thousands, it is true, but they appear to be of little practical value. During the East Winds the land perishes with thirst, and during the West Winds everything floats upon the water. The Government cares much for the well-being of the people of Java, but alas it allows them to be burdened by heavy taxes, under the load of which they can move but slowly.