VI

[1]To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.

[2]The native Javanese orchestra. The composition of this varies according to its uses. There is one gamelan for religious celebrations, another for feasts of rejoicing and another for the theatre. "The native Javanese orchestra in which percussion instruments play the predominant rôle. A gamelan salendes and a gamelan pélog are distinguished: in the former the instruments are adapted to an octave of five tones, in the latter to an octave of seven tones. The gamelan varies in composition but consists typically of the vĕbab, a viol of Persian-Palie origin, which carries the melody and is played by the leader of the orchestra; the soeling, a bamboo flute; kĕndang and kĕtipoeng, large and small drums; the tjelem poeng, a zither; the bonang, a set of horizontal gongs supported over a sound box; the four sorons (instruments consisting in the gamelan salendro of six toned metal staves, of seven in the gamelan pélog); they accompany the melody and give it out more plainly than the bonang (sometimes taking the melody unaccompanied); the gambang kajoe, or xylophone and a variety of large and small hanging gongs."—H.H. Bartlett.

[3]Audience hall and principal room of a Regent's palace. Usually octagonal in shape and open to the out of doors.

[4]"De Kleine Man" as the Javanese peasant is called by the Hollanders.

[5]Characters in Max Havelaar by Multatuli.

[6]In Java the wet and dry seasons depend upon the periodical winds. The exact time of these winds is not determined, but usually the "West Wind" attended by rain begins in October and lasts through November into December and afterwards subsides gradually. The "East Wind" begins in March or April and brings fair weather.

[7]Principal native magistrate of a village or town.

[8]A native Justice of the Peace.

[9]The highest provincial official of the Dutch Government is the Resident, each Resident has under his control one or more regencies. Next to the Resident comes the Assistant-Resident, the Comptroller of the first and second class and the Aspirant. The Resident's powers are administrative, judicial and fiscal. He is under obligations to protect the natives, maintain peace, further agriculture and education. But in so far as circumstances permit the natives are left under the rule of their own hereditary chiefs, natives of princely or noble rank, and these are responsible for the conduct of their subjects. The highest native official below the rank of regent is the District Head, then come the under District Heads of the first and second class. See Policy and administration of the Dutch in Java by Clive Day.

[10]Government building for the use of travelling officials.

[11]Mineral water from Holland.

[12]Where native Javanese are trained in medicine under the patronage of the Dutch Government.

[13]Rice is the principal Javanese food, and to the Javanese mind to do without rice is to do without food.

[14]"At one time the regents were all powerful in the native hierarchy and they are still of influence as political advisers. They retain the dignity but have had to cede much of its practical power." Policy and Administrating the Dutch in Java. Clive Day.

[15]Europeans who are new-comers in Java.

1900.[1]

We want to ask the Indian Government to send us to Europe at the country's expense. Roekmini wishes to study art, and later to work for the revival of our native art. Kleintje wants to go to the school of Domestic Science, so that she may learn to teach frugality, good house-keeping and the care of money to our future mothers and housewives. For in these virtues, the careless, idle, luxurious and splendour loving Javanese people have much need of schooling. And I, as a teacher, am to instruct the future mothers in practical knowledge—to teach them to understand love and justice and right conduct, as we have learned them from the Europeans.

The Government wishes to bring prosperity to Java and to teach the people frugality; it is beginning with the officials. But what good will it do, if the men are compelled to lay aside money, when the women in whose hands the house-keeping rests do not understand the worth of that money?

The Government wishes to educate and civilize the Javanese people and must needs begin by teaching the smallest and highest class, which is the aristocracy, the Dutch language.

But is an intellectual education everything? To be truly civilized, intellectual and moral education must go hand in hand.

And who can do most for the elevation of the moral standard of mankind? The woman, the mother; it is at the breast of woman, that man receives his earliest nourishment. The child learns there first, to feel, to think, and to speak. And the earliest education of all foreshadows the whole after life.

The most serious fault of our people is idleness. It is a great drawback to the prosperity of Java.

So many latent powers lie undeveloped through indolence. The high born Javanese would rather suffer bitter want and misery than have plenty if he must work; nothing less than a gold coloured pajoeng[2]thinks the high born head. The noble makes light of everything except that most desirable article—a golden parasol!

Our people are not rich in ideals, but an example which speaks, would impress them. They would be impelled to follow it. My sisters and I wish to go before and lighten the way, for that reason we want more than anything else to go to Holland to study. It will be well with us if we can go. Little Mother, Help us!

When we come back to Java, we shall open a school for girls of the nobility; if we cannot get the means through our Government, then we will work for it in some other way, ask our friends to subscribe, start a lottery or something. The means will be found when we are ready to do the work—but I am running ahead, because we have the hardest struggle here at home; with Father's consent we should be richer than queens. If we could only have that.

It is frightful to be a Javanese girl and to have a sensitive heart; poor, poor parents, what a fate was yours to have such daughters! We hope and pray fervently that they may be blessed with a long life, and that later they will be proud of us even though we do not walk abroad under glittering golden sunshades.

I will work hard over the Dutch language so that I can have it completely under my thumb and do with it as I will—and then I shall seek, through means of my pen, to arouse the sympathy of those who are able to help us in our work to improve the lot of the Javanese woman.

"Poor fool," I hear you say, "if you push will all your might against the gigantic structure of ignorance, will you be able to over-turn it?" But we will push, little Mother, with all our strength, and if only one stone of it falls out, we shall not have worked in vain. But first we are going to seek the co-operation of the best and most enlightened men in Java (even one of them could help us). We wish to form an alliance with our enlightened progressive men, to seek their friendship, and after that their co-operation with us. We are not giving battle to men, but to old moss-grown edicts and conventions that are not worthy of the Javanese of the future. That future, of which we, (and a few others), are the forerunners. Throughout all ages the pioneers in the struggle against tradition, have suffered, we know that. Call us mad, foolish, what you will, we can not help it, it is in our blood.

Grandfather was a pioneer half a century ago; he gave his sons and daughters a European education. We have no right to be passive, to do nothing. "Adeldom verplicht"[3]Excelsior! We wish that we could make common cause now with the men of the younger generation, but if we did we should be distrusted at once; friendship between unmarried women and men whether married or not, would not be understood. Later when we shall have gained our independence, it will be different. My brother knows many progressive young men personally and through correspondence. We know that there are men who appreciate a thinking, educated woman. I heard a man say once, (he was a highly placed native official) that the companionship of a woman who was educated and enlightened was a great comfort and support to a man.

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

[2]A pajoeng or parasol is the symbol of rank in Java. They are of many colours and variations of stripes denoting the degree of the personage above whom they are held. The pajoeng of a sultan is gold with an orange stripe, that of a regent gold, of a sultana and her children white, below those are various combinations of red, blue, black and yellow the use of which is strictly prescribed by the laws of heraldry. A pajoeng is borne above the head of a Javanese dignitary whenever he goes abroad.

[3]Nobility involves obligation.

August 1900.[1]

"What language, however powerful, can express every emotion of the soul. It can not be done, it is impossible."

I believe with you that it is impossible, at least as far as writing and speaking go, but there is a silent secret language which never expresses itself in words, or written signs, and yet is understood and comprehended by every one who has faith, because in its whole vocabulary the little word "lie" is unknown.

It is the pure chaste language of the eyes, the clear mirrors of the soul, and if you could have seen me this morning as five delicate, scented leaves quivered in my trembling hands, and warm tears coursed down my cheeks, you could, without hearing a single sound from my lips, have understood what I felt. Neither the mouth nor the pen can express it, but the eyes drowned in a flood of tears were raised on high as though to seek among the angels of God the ones who with tender wings came down to us, who were sad and wept bitterly upon earth, to comfort, and fill us with heavenly joy.

Every heart beat, every pulse beat, and each indrawing of the breath was a prayer of thanksgiving.

We are only ordinary human beings, a mixture of evil and of good like millions of others. Can it be that at first glance there is more of good than evil in us? One doesn't have to seek far for the cause of this; when one lives among innocent surroundings, it is not hard to be good, one does that of oneself. And, it is certainly no credit to do no evil when one has had no opportunity. Later when we have flown from the warm parental nest and are in the midst of ordinary human life, where no faithful parent's arm is thrown protectingly around us, when the storms of life rage and rave above our heads, and no loving hands support us, and hold us fast as our feet waver—then for the first time, you will see what we are. Oh! I pray so fervently that we may never add to the mountain of disappointment which life has already brought to you; another just as fervent prayer, do not think us beautiful; it cannot be otherwise, some day you will be disappointed, and that would cause us bitter grief.

Now slowly by bits and pieces I shall tell you truthfully nearly all that I can about ourselves, so that you can have some insight into our true characters, and will not in your great goodness endow us with fine attributes, which we have not. Still a whole lifetime lies before us; let us see what can be made of it.

"I feel so much for the cause of woman, I am touched by her fate; she is still unappreciated and misunderstood in many lands even in this our age of light. I would help her so earnestly, and so willingly." Thank you for these splendid sympathetic words. In them, your great compassion speaks, your deep pity for the suffering of woman who through the ages has endured wrong from her fellow creature—man. I thank God that there are some who are noble in heart and spirit, and feel for the sad fate of our native women, and wish to send light into their poor, dark world.

White sister, with your warm deep-feeling heart, your pure eyes, your rich spirit, reach your hand to us; help us out of this pool of grief and misery into which the selfishness of men has plunged us, and holds us fast. Help us to overcome the relentless egoism of man—that demon which for centuries has held the woman lashed, imprisoned, so that accustomed as she is to ill treatment she sees no injustice but submits with stoicism to what seems the "good right" of the man, and an inheritance of sorrow to every woman. I am still young, but I am not deaf nor blind and I have heard and seen much, too much, it may he, so that my heart is drawn with pain and I am swept violently forward in opposition to those customs and conventions which are the curse of women and children!

Helpless in bitter grief, I wring my hands and feel myself powerless to fight against an evil so gigantic! and which, O Cruelty! is under the protection of the Mohammedan Law, and is fed by the ignorance of the women themselves, the victims of the sacrifice. Fate allows that cruel wrong which is called polygamy to stalk abroad in the land—"I will not have it," cries the mouth vehemently and the heart echoes the cry a thousand fold, but alas—to will! Have we human beings a will? It is always, we must,mustdo everything, from our first infant cry till our last breath.

Life is full of dark riddles and of secrets. We think that we know so much, and all the time we know nothing! We think that we have a will, an iron will, and picture ourselves strong enough to move mountains—then a burning tear, a sorrowful look from eyes that we love, and our strength is gone.

Let me tell you a story that is neither amusing nor interesting, but dull, monotonous and long drawn out, and which will demand much patience. First I ask your forgiveness, humbly, for the weary hour I am going to cause you.

It is the history of three brown girls, children of the sunny East; born blind, but whose eyes have been opened so that they can see the beautiful, noble things in life. And now, that their eyes have grown accustomed to the light, now that they have learned to love the sun and everything that is in the brilliant world; they are about to have the blinders pressed back against their eyes, and to be plunged into the darkness from which they had come, and in which each and every one of their grandmothers back through the ages had lived.

It is said that books full of "nonsense" came from the distant West and penetrated the heart of the "Binnenland," that quiet peaceful place on Java's ever green coast, where the sisters dwelt, that these rebellious ones were unwilling to bear the yoke which had been borne meekly and patiently by all women before them, and which now hangs suspended above them, so that any second it may be dropped upon their unwilling shoulders.

People are wrong. It is not only the books that have made them rebellious, conditions have done that, conditions that have existed from time immemorial, and which are a curse, a curse—to every one who happens to be born a woman or a girl.

Already in her earliest youth when emancipation was for her an unknown word, and when books and other writings which spoke of it, were far beyond her reach, in one of the three sisters was born the desire to open the door of life.

It was recreation hour at the European school at Japara. Under the yellow blossoming waroe trees in the schoolyard, big and little girls were grouped in happy disorder. It was so warm that no one cared to play.

"Shut your book, Letsy, I have something to tell you," pleaded a brown girl, whose costume and headdress betrayed the Javanese.

A great blond girl, who leaned against the trunk of a tree reading eagerly in a book, turned around and said, "No, I have to study my French lesson."

"You can do that at home, for it is not school work."

"Yes, but if I do not learn my French lessons well, I shall not be allowed to go to Holland year after next; and I am so anxious to go there to study at the Normal School. When I come back later as a teacher, perhaps I shall be placed here; and then I shall sit on the platform before the class as our teacher does now. But tell me, Ni, you have never yet said what you were going to be when you grew up."

Two large eyes were turned toward the speaker in astonishment.

"Only tell me."

The Javanese shook her head and said laconically, "I do not know."

No, truly she did not know, she had never thought of it, she was still so young, still so full of joyous young life. But the question of her little white friend made a deep impression upon her; it would not let her rest, incessantly—she seemed to hear sounding in her ears the words "What are you going to be when you grow up?" That day she did much task work in school, she was so absent-minded, gave the most foolish answers when she was asked a question, and made the silliest mistakes in her work. It could not have been otherwise, for her thoughts were not on her lessons, she was thinking of what she had heard in the recreation hour.

The first thing that she did when she got home was to run to her father and lay the problem before him.

"What am I going to be when I grow up?"

He said nothing, but smiled and pinched her cheek. But she would not allow herself to be put off, and waited, teasing him for an answer. At last an older brother came in, and answered the question. Her greedy listening ears heard these words:

"What should a girl become? Why a Raden-Ajoe, [a Javanese married woman of high rank], naturally."

The little girl was satisfied with the answer, and went quickly and happily away.

"A Raden-Ajoe," she repeated several times to herself. "What is a Raden-Ajoe?" The idea was with her always; she thought constantly of the two words, "Raden-Ajoe." She must later become such an one. She looked around her, saw and came in contact with many Raden-Ajoes, regarded them attentively, studied them, and what she learned (as much as a child could understand) of the lives of these women, caused the spirit of opposition to awaken in her heart against this being a Raden-Ajoe—the ancient iron-bound rule, that girls must marry, must belong to a man, without being asked when, who, or how.

This little girl reached the age of twelve and a half, and it was time that she should say farewell to her merry childish life, and take leave of the school-benches upon which she had been so glad to sit; and of the little European companions among whom she had studied so willingly. She was old enough to come home according to the custom of her country. It demands that a young girl remain in the house, and be rigidly secluded from the outside world until that time when the man for whom God has created her shall come and take her to his dwelling.

She knew all too well that with the school door much that was unutterably dear would be closed to her for ever. The parting from the dear teacher, who bade her farewell with such sympathetic, cordial words, counseling resignation, and from little companions, who with tears in their eyes pressed her hand.

It was hard, but it was as nothing in comparison with the giving up of her lessons, the ending of her studies. She was so bent upon learning, and she knew that there was much more yet to be studied before one can even go through the lower school. She was ambitious, and she did not wish to stand below her little white friends, most of whom were going to Europe later, or her brothers who went to the High School.

She implored her father to allow her to go to the High School at Semarang with the boys; she would do her best; her parents would never have to complain of her. She crouched on her knees before him, her pleading hands resting upon his lap, her great child's eyes were raised up to him full of longing, and in breathless suspense and anguish she waited for his answer.

Caressingly he stroked the dark little head, his fingers pushed back tenderly the rebellious locks from her forehead, and softly and yet firmly, the word "No" came from his lips.

She sprang up, she knew what "No" from him meant. She went away and crept under the bed to hide herself; she wished to be alone with her grief.

Once her teacher had asked her if she could not go to Holland to study with Letsy, his daughter, who was her friend. She listened eagerly and with shining eyes.

"Would you not like to go?"

"Do not ask me if I would like to go; ask me if I may," came hoarsely from her trembling lips.

Good man, he had meant to be so kind to her. Stranger that he was to native customs, he did not know how cruel his question was. It was putting dainties before the eyes of one starving for bread.

Foolish girl, it was never the intention of your good parents to send you to school to raise rebellious thoughts in your heart. You were to learn Dutch, and Dutch manners, nothing more. Stupid little thing, if that had been all you had learned so much misery in the future would have been spared you. But the stupid little thing had not made herself, she couldn't help it if God had given her a sensitive soul, and a heart which readily absorbed all that the Dutch language had helped her to think beautiful.

Poor little one. In her heart, Western thoughts found a joyous entrance, yet she saw herself fettered hand and foot by Eastern tradition. And her muscles were still too weak, too soft to enable her to break the chains which bound her. And later when she found herself strong, so that with a single jerk they could be wrenched asunder—did she do it? But we will not run ahead with the story, we have not gone very far as yet.

The school door lay behind her, and the house of her parents welcomed her to herself. Great was that house, and spacious were the grounds, but high and thick were the walls that surrounded them and the closed in four cornered space was henceforth to be her world, her all. Never mind, how spacious and handsome, even comfortable a cage may be it is still a cage to the little bird that is imprisoned there.

Gone, gone was her merry childhood; gone everything that made her young life happy. She still felt herself such a child, and she was that in fact too, but the law placed her inexorably among the full grown. And she to whom no ditch was too broad to be leapt, no tree too high to be climbed, who loved nothing so much as to run like a wild colt in the meadows, must now be calm, composed and grave, as beseemed a Javanese young lady of a high and noble house. The ideal Javanese girl is silent and expressionless as a wooden doll, speaking only when it is necessary, and then with a little whispering voice which can hardly be heard by an ant; she must walk foot before foot and slowly like a snail, laugh silently without opening her lips; it is unseemly for the teeth to show, that is to be like a clown.

Ni sinned every second.

A dull, monotonous, slow mode of life began for her. Day after day passed wearily away amid the same occupations, and the same people. Sometimes there would be a bright spot in those first dark days, a visit from Letsy. It was like a holiday when Letsy was with her; she became as of old the merry child and forgot that she was a prisoner, but she suffered doubly for the temporary forgetfulness after the little white friend had gone.

The slow moving life went on, more stupid, more monotonous——

She watched her younger sisters with hungry longing every time that they went out of the door, armed with their school-books, to go to the temple of wisdom where knowledge was to be found.

For a time she tried to study her lessons by herself; but it seemed useless—a pupil alone without a master soon grows discouraged. With a deep sigh she hid her books away.

If pillows and cushions could but speak what would they not be able to tell! They could tell of the misery of a little human soul that with scalding tears cried herself to sleep on their bosom night after night.

Young people cannot learn to be resigned. In their silly little heads and hearts dwell a hundred wild, restless and rebellious thoughts. They feel themselves so alone, and draw back timidly from those with whom they live day in and day out.

It is very easy to live for years with one's brothers and sisters and to remain always as strangers. Ni had an older sister who shared her imprisonment. She was fond of her but there was no confidence between them. They differed too much both in character and point of view. The older sister was quiet, conventional, calm and composed, and the younger one was just the opposite; all life and fire by nature. Her ideas were wrong in the eyes of the other, who believed firmly in all the old traditions and customs.

Often the younger sister had gone with shining eyes to tell of something which filled her brimful of enthusiasm; and when she had finished, the older sister would answer coldly, "Go your own way; as for me I am a Javanese."

Ni's heart would stand still within her, as though touched by a rough hand, she would grow icy cold. The younger sisters too were estranged from her; the older one was not pleased when they were with Ni—Ni who had such strange ideas. And sister was very strong; the little sisters were afraid of her.

Ni found it hard, but not so hard as to feel that her own mother was opposed to her. She too closed her heart to her, because her child's ideas were diametrically opposed to her own. Poor little Ni—her small soul was longing for tenderness and she found only coldness; where on her side she gave love, she received at best tolerance. Why was she always so strange, so peculiar, so different? Ah, she had tried so often to be like others, to think like others, yet always when she was almost happy, something would happen, that would make the slumbering thoughts burst forth tumultuously, and reproach her for her seeming forgetfulness, so that she would hold to them all the more firmly.

Still her life was not so wholly colourless and dull. There were two who held to her, who loved her just as she was; she felt their love warming her inmost being, and clung to them with all the tenderness of her thirsting heart. They were her father and her third brother—the youngest of her older brothers. It is true that they could not satisfy her most intimate and dearest wish to be free; could never gratify her longing to study. But her dear father was always so good to his little daughter, his own silly girl; she knew that he loved her, she felt it. He would look at her tenderly, his gentle hands would stroke her cheeks, her hair, and his strong arms would go so protectingly around her.

And she knew that brother loved her too, although he had never told her so, had never spoken a loving word to her, had never caressed her. But a thousand little delicate attentions of which only a loving heart could think spoke constantly of his warm affection for her. He never laughed at her when she told him her thoughts, never made her shiver with a cold, "Go your own way; as for me I am a Javanese." And although he never told her that he sympathized with her ideals, she knew in her heart that he was as one with her, she knew that he was only silent because he did not wish to make her more rebellious. The books which he placed in her hands showed her that. Ni felt so rich with the love of her two dear ones, and with the sympathy of her brother.

But her father was not always with her; he had his work to do, and where he worked she might not go. She must never go out of the fast-closed place which was her dwelling. And her brother was at home only once in the year, for he went to school in Semarang.

Her oldest brother came home. He had obtained an appointment in the neighbourhood and lived with his parents. If Ni had suffered before his coming, from the coolness of nearly all those who lived in the house with her, from their indifference to all that interested her, from her imprisonment, there now began a series of teasings and tormentings which added a thousand times to her distress. Ni was wild; she could not dance to the piping of her brother. "Young people should be submissive and obey their elders," was constantly preached to her; and above all, "Girls must be submissive to their older brothers."

But headstrong Ni could not see why this should be. She could not help it, that she should have been born later than her brother; that was no reason why she should be submissive to him. She was not answerable to any one, only to her own conscience and her own heart. She would never give in to her brother except when she was convinced that he was right.

At first he was astonished, and later he grew angry, when he saw that a little girl who was half a dozen years younger than he dared to defy his will. She must be forcibly suppressed. Everything was wrong that Ni did. She was severely reprimanded for each little fault. No day passed that brother and sister did not stand facing each other in anger. He with a dark countenance and stern words that made her heart bleed, and she with quivering lips tremblingly defending her good right to do something which he wished to forbid.

She was entirely alone in her fight against the despotism of her brother—her future protector, whenever she should have the misfortune to lose her parents, until she should leave his roof under the protection of the man for whom God had created her! He took very good care not to torment her when her father was there; father would never have allowed it, and he knew well that she was too proud to tell.

But the others who lived in the house were silent too, although they knew that she was within her rights. It would not do to allow impertinence, and the girl was impertinent; young as she was, she dared to say "No" to the "Yes" of her so much older brother. A girl had no right to do anything which would even partially detract from the importance of a man. It was not right for this girl to oppose her ideas to those of her self-willed brother.

In later years, when Ni remembered all this, she could understand very well why the man was so egotistical. Always, by every one in the house, he was taught as a child to be selfish, by his mother most of all. From childhood he was taught to regard the girl, the woman, as a creature of a lower order than himself. Had she not often heard his mother, his aunts, and all the women of his acquaintance say to him in scornful, disdainful tones, "A girl is only a girl"? It is through woman herself that man first learns to scorn woman. Ni's blood boiled whenever she heard deprecating words about girls spoken by a woman.

"Women are nothing—women are created for men, for their pleasure; they can do with them as they will," sounded brutally in her ears, and irritating as the laugh of Satan. Her eyes shot fire, her fists clenched, and she pressed her lips tightly together in impotent distress. "No, No," cried her fast beating little heart, "We are human just as much as men. Oh, let me learn. Loose my bonds! Only give me the chance, and I will show that I am a human being, a woman just as good as a man." She writhed and twisted, but the chains were strong and locked tightly around her tender wrists and ankles. She wounded herself, but she did not break them.

Too early ripened child, at an age when a young head should only be filled with dreams of merry play, she was busy with sombre dark thoughts about the sad things in life. It could not have been otherwise; she was not deaf nor blind and lived in the midst of a civilization which took no account of youth and sensitive feelings. Roughly the young tender eyes were opened to the realities of life, in all their coarseness, ugliness and cruelty. From her parents themselves she never heard a harsh word that would have shocked her pure mind or wounded her sensitive heart, but she did not live only with her parents.

O Death! why are you called terrible, you who release mankind from this cruel life? Ni would have followed you thankfully and with joy. She had no one to show her what was lofty and beautiful in life, and that everything was not low and vile. Ni loved her father with her whole soul, and although she lived constantly with her parents she could never lay her inmost thoughts before them. Coldly the strong Javanese etiquette stood between them.

Ni avoided, as much as she could, those people who with their cynicism had withered her; and while the manners and customs of her country did not allow her stricken little soul to seek refuge in her parents' arms and on her parents' hearts, she found comfort in those quiet, silent friends "books."

She had always been fond of reading, but now her love for reading became a passion; as soon as she had time, when all her little duties were done, she would seize a book or a paper. She read everything that came into her hands; she greedily devoured both the green and the ripe. Once she threw a book away which was full of horrors. She did not have to look into books when she wished to know of loathsome, nauseating things; real life was full of them; it was to escape from them that she buried her soul in realms which the genius of man has fashioned out of the spirit of fantasy.

There were so many beautiful books which gave her unspeakable pleasure, and which she will never be able to forget; stories of strong characters nobly laying hold on life, of great souls and spirits, which would make her heart glow with enthusiasm and delight. She lived in everything that she read, while she was reading there was nothing more for which she wished, she was lost! Her Father took great pleasure in her love of reading and showered her with presents of books. She did not understand everything that she read, but she did not allow herself to be discouraged by that. What she could not understand in the first reading became in the second less obscure, and at the third or fourth, it would be quite clear. Every unknown word that she found she noted down; and later, when her dearest brother came home, she would ask him its meaning. And he helped his little sister so willingly, and lovingly.

If she had not had her loving Father, her dear brother and her books, she could not have lived through the sorrowful years. Father and brother stilled the yearning for love and affection, and the books gave to her hungry spirit food.

A little brother was born, and this helpless baby held Ni back from misfortune; he brought her again into the good path from which she had begun to wander. She was fast becoming a bad child toward her Mother. She had closed her heart more and more toward her, and the little brother made the doors of that heart spring wide open again. Little brother taught her what a mother is, and what a child owes to its mother.

Mother had dark rings under her eyes, and looked weak and worn out, and little brother had done that; little brother who would not let her rest, but called her every night again and again. Never mind how wearisome the heavy burden might be, there was never a single expression of impatience on Mother's face; whenever little brother cried for her, in a second she was by him. She would take him up and never lay him out of her arms till he was in a sweet sleep. Had Mother held her, too, and never put her down, till she was sound asleep? The ice-crust around Ni's heart melted, and it beat warmly once more toward the woman who had given her life.

Brother was a healthy child during his first year, but when he was weaned, and for three years after that the little one was sick, as though he kept wrestling with death. And by his sick bed, Ni the young child, learned to understand her Mother.

She saw her own shortcomings; she was too selfish, she was always thinking of her own troubles, and never thought that others could have troubles and that she could have a share in causing them. She had once been always with Mother as little brother was now, she could do nothing without Mother. Mother must have suffered and perhaps did even now; well, she could not help it if she thought differently from her mother, but she could be very careful to do nothing that would cause her pain.

Little brother taught her consideration; how to see the other side of things; he taught her submission, and gratitude, and to give without asking anything in return.

Four years went by, calm and quiet on the surface, but to those who could see below it, full of strife for Ni. She learned much in those years; self-mastery, submission, not always to think first of herself; but peace and acquiescence she had not learned, could never learn; her head was haunted by turbulent thoughts. Voices too still came to her from the distant West in books, newspapers, and magazines, and in letters from Dutch friends.

For a year her sisters and she had every day an hour's lesson in handiwork from a Dutch lady. These were pleasant hours for Ni because then she could speak Dutch, the language which she loved so much.

Her oldest brother, meanwhile, was given a position at a distance, and Ni was ashamed that she should be so very glad. He was still her brother, although he had not loved her.

Time and separation work wonders; they took away all resentment from Ni's heart, and she grew to love her brother. She felt sorry for the great boy who had allowed himself to be deceived by the silly flattery of fawning, favour-seeking men. It comforted her to think that toward the last she had noticed a change in his conduct toward her. He said nothing in words, but his actions spoke of his sorrow for his former injustice; and Ni thanked God with tears in her eyes that her brother was beginning to be fond of her. She who had been formerly disliked and hated was now first. She was always with him, and he would do more for her than for any one else.

A half year before a younger sister had come to share the imprisonment. Bemi was fortunate, at an age when Ni had already been for a long time safely immured behind high thick walls, she could run freely around, go on little journeys and do many other things that were forbidden to Ni. Bemi was fourteen and a half years of age when she came home to stay.

Ni was now sixteen. The oldest sister married, and with the wedding celebration changes came into her own life. Ni learned to know her sisters, who up to this time had lived near her, but as strangers. There could never have been very much confidence between her older sister and herself; she was only an older sister. And Ni did not wish to be so regarded by the younger ones: she wished to be loved, and not feared. Freedom and equality were what she asked for herself; ought she not to begin by giving them to others? The intercourse between the younger sisters and herself must be free and unrestrained. Away with everything that would hinder it. With Bemi and Wi, a little sister who had meanwhile come to the house, Ni took sister's room. And the three lives that had hitherto been strange to one another met, flowed together and became as one.

[1]To Mevrouw Abendanon-Mandri.

O, the inward pain of caring for nothing. We must have something; work, that will take entire possession of us, and leave no time for torturing thoughts. That is the only thing that can awaken our slumbering souls, and give us back our strength of spirit. Work, that is just it.

The longing for work that we will love is what presses upon us so heavily. It is frightful to feel the power to work, and the will to work, and yet be condemned to idleness.

We will not believe that our whole lives to the very end will be monotonous, dull and commonplace. And yet we see no chance for a single one of all our beautiful dreams to ever become a reality. We do not know clearly what we shall do, but we are determined to follow only the voices of our own hearts.

"If we had been boys, our father could have brought us up to be fine fellows," we hear till we are weary. When it is certainly true that if the same material is in us out of which fine boys could be made, the same trouble could just as easily make fine women of us. Is it only fine men that have been of use hitherto? And are fine women of no value to civilization?

But we Javanese women must first of all be gentle and submissive; we must be as clay which one can mould into any form that he wishes. But why speak of this now? It is as though men on a sinking ship complained because they had not remained at home, investigated the cause of the misfortune, and punished those responsible for it. That would not prevent the ship from going down; they would be drowned just the same, and only the courage of the hand at the rudder, and pumping at the leak, could have saved them from destruction.

23 August, 1900.[1]

Your encouragement is a support—it strengthens me. I will, I shall obtain my freedom. I will, Stella, I will! Do you understand that? But how shall I be able to win it, if I do not strive? How shall I be able to find it, if I do not seek? Without strife there can be no victory. I shall strive, and I shall win. I am not afraid of the burdens and difficulties; I feel strong enough to overcome them, but there is one thing I am afraid to face squarely.

Stella, I have often told you that I love Father dearly. I do not know whether I shall have the courage to carry my will through, if it would break his heart, which is full of love for us.

I love him unspeakably, my old grey Father—old and grey through care for us—for me. And if one of us should be condemned to unhappiness, let me be the one. Here lurks egoism, for I could never be happy, even if I had freedom, even if I gained my independence, if in attaining them, I had made Father miserable.

In thinking over Javanese and European conditions and comparing them with one another, one can easily see that it is hardly better there than here in so far as the morality of the men is concerned, and that women are unfortunate there as here, with this difference, however, that the great majority there, of their own free will follow the man in the marriage bond; while here the women have no say at all in the matter, but are simply married out of hand, according to the will of their parents, to whomsoever those powerful ones shall find good.

In the Mohammedan world the approval, yes, even the presence of the woman is not necessary at a marriage. Father can come home any day at all and say to me, "You are married to so and so." I must then follow my husband. It is true I can refuse, but that gives the man the right to chain me to him for my whole life, without ever having come near me. I am his wife although I will not follow him, and if he will not allow me to be divorced, then I am bound to him all my life, while he is free to do as he pleases. He may marry as many women as he chooses without being concerned in the least about me. If Father should marry me off in this manner then I should find a way out at the beginning, one way or another. But then Father would never do that.

God has created woman as the companion of man and the calling of woman is marriage. Good! it is not to be denied, and I gladly acknowledge that the highest happiness for a woman is, and shall be centuries after us, a harmonious union with the man of her choice.

But how can one speak of a harmonious union as our marriage laws are now? I have tried to picture them to you. Must I not for myself, hate the idea of marriage, scorn it, when by it the woman is so cruelly wronged? No, fortunately every Mohammedan has not four wives or more, but every married woman in our world knows that she is not the only one, and that any day the man's fancy can bring a companion home, who will have just as much right to him as she. According to the Mohammedan law she is also his wife. In the Government[2]countries, the women have not such a hard time as their sisters in those ruled by the princes, as in Soerakarta and Djokjakarta. Here the women are fortunate with only one, two, three or four co-wives. There, in the princes' countries, the women would call that child's play. One finds there hardly a single man with but one wife. Among the nobility, especially in the circle surrounding the emperor, the men have usually twenty-six women.

Shall these conditions endure, Stella?

Our people have grown so accustomed to them, and moreover they see no other way in which every woman would be provided for. But in her heart almost every woman that I know curses this right of the man. But curses never help; something must be done.

Come, women, girls, stand up; let us reach our hands to one another, and let us work together to change this unbearable situation.

Yes, Stella, I know it; in Europe, too, the state of morality among men is tragic. I say with you, teach the young men to turn their backs upon temptation and deplorable, half-acknowledged customs, and to feel disgraced at the existence of those short-sighted girls who follow men not ignorantly into the places where life is sordid. Yes certainly the young mothers could do most there, I have already maintained that to my sisters.

I should so love to have children, boys and girls to nourish and to form after my own heart. But above all things I should never follow the unhappy custom of putting boys before girls. We have no right to be surprised at the egoism of men when we consider how as children they are placed above the girls, their sisters. Even as a child a man is taught to despise girls. Have I not many times heard mothers say to their boys when they would fall and cry: "Fie, a boy cry just like a girl!"

I should teach my children, boys and girls, to regard one another as equal human beings and give them always the same education; of course following the natural disposition of each.

I should not allow my girl, although I wished to make a new woman of her, to study as though she had no other desire in life; nor would I cut her off in anything so that her brother could have more. Never!

And then I should let down the bars which have been so foolishly erected between the two sexes. I am convinced that when this is done much good will come of it, especially to the men. I shall never believe that educated and cultivated men designedly avoid the society of women who are their equals in education and enlightenment, to throw themselves deliberately into the arms of disreputable women. While many men seek the society where cultivated ladies are to be found, there is a vast army who cannot take the slightest interest in a girl without thinking of sex. Now all this will disappear when men and women can mingle freely together from childhood.

You say, "We girls could do much toward bringing young men upon the good path, but we know so little of their lives." Everything will change with time, but here in Java we stand only on the threshold of the new age. Must we not go through all the corresponding stages of development, through which you have already passed in Europe?

Among my new treasures I have "Het Jongetje" by Borel.[3]A delightful book. Many here think it sickly and over-drawn. But to me; it is sickly not at all, and over-drawn even less. There may not be many like Borel's little boy, but I know at least one. The child of the Assistant-Resident is Borel's boy personified. Once he said to Kardinah "Tante, I like girls so much. Girls smile so indolently. They are quite, quite different from boys; they are so sweet, so soft." A little fellow of five said this. He bit Kardinah's arm once, saying, "Tante, why are women so soft?" Then he bit his own arm and said, "Though I am so little, yet I am a man, that is the reason I am hard."

He is such a lovely child, with great dreamy eyes and brown curling hair. Before he came here he made our acquaintance at Soerabaja through our portraits.

His mother told him that they were going to the place where his dear aunts lived. The child thought that he must marry and asked "Maatje, must I marry all three or only one of them?"

When he came here and saw us, his mother said to him, "Well, little brother, have you chosen which one of the aunts you will marry?"

"Maatje, I cannot choose, for I love all three just the same."

The dear little angel then turned to each one of us and said, "I love you, I love you, I love you. Yes, I love the whole world for everything is good, everything is beautiful."

If this had been told me by some one else, I should not have believed it, but I saw and heard it with my own eyes and ears.

The subject which Mevrouw van Suylen-Tromp wishes to have treated is the "The life of the Native Woman." On that I had rather not write just yet. I have far too much to say, and could not possibly make an orderly whole of it now. In a few years perhaps, when I shall have learned more, I shall undertake it.

Now the thoughts blow and whirl through my brain like falling leaves that are driven by the wind. What a comparison, eh?

The mornings are magnificent now and so are the evenings, but in the middle of the day I should like to do nothing but lie in the water, if that were not so warm. We enjoy the mornings so much, nature is then splendidly fresh and beautiful. We wander around the garden where everything is blooming and fragrant. It is truly a pleasure to be out of doors in the morning. If you could only wander around with us; or do you not care for flowers and plants? Mother has her vegetable garden, and we our flower and rose garden; this last is next to our room, and when there is a full moon it is so idyllic out there. The sisters bring their guitars and sit under the flowering shrubs and make music. After the concert, we sit idly, sometimes chattering and laughing.

Your indignation over the treatment which my two educated and enlightened fellow countrymen had to endure, did me good. But believe me, they are not all stupid men who conduct themselves so scornfully toward the Javanese. I have met persons who are far from stupid, who even belong to the aristocracy of the mind, but are so haughty and over-bearing that they do not like to be in the same house with me.

Too often we are made to feel that we Javanese are not really human beings at all. How do the Netherlanders expect to be loved by us when they treat us so? Love begets love, but scorn never yet aroused affection. We have many friends among the Hollanders whom we love dearly, even more than we do friends of our own race. They have taken the trouble to try and understand us, and they have won our love. We shall never forget that we have to thank the Hollanders for the awakening of our minds, for our civilization. They may wrong us, but we will like them because we owe them so much.

People may say of the Javanese what they will, but they can never say with truth that they have not hearts. They have them manifestly and they know how to be grateful for benefits, whether they are of a material or of an intellectual kind, although their immovable countenances change not one jot to betray their inward emotion. But I shall never have to tell you, I am sure, that all creatures of whatever colour, are human beings, just as much as you yourself.

I am happy because I have been able to know you. I shall not let you go, Stella. I love you so much that I do not know what would become of my life, if, as God forbid, we should ever become separated. As though the wide ocean were not already between us! But spirits among whom there is great sympathy know no distance; they bridge the widest seas and most far-away lands to commune with one another. Letters too are splendid. Blessed be he who first invented them!

A week ago we had a visit from the Director of Education, Service and Industry, and his wife from Batavia—and Stella, rejoice with me, the Director came here especially to see Father and to ask his advice personally about the erection of the native school for girls which the Government is planning.

I was sick and miserable, not only from bodily pain, but misery of soul. But Stella, I believed that my dream of freedom was on the point of realization when Father gave me the Director's letter. That letter cured me entirely. It did me such infinite good to know that in Batavia one of the highest officials of the Government had a heart for the Javanese, and for the Javanese woman.

Soon afterwards Mama came to look for me, and she found her daughter in tears; I was so happy, so thankful.

Before he came I had the greatest desire to see him alone, if only for a moment, just to express something of what I felt.

And he came—but not alone—his wife was with him. O Stella, never in our lives have we made such a charming acquaintance! I had already great sympathy for him, because I knew why he was coming; and the sympathy grew, when I saw him ride into our grounds on the front seat of the carriage with his wife on the back seat, and next to her Father who had met them at the station.

I knew that Father would never have sat there without being pressed. You would have seen nothing remarkable in this, and you will laugh at me when I say that it impressed me very much, because it spoke of the modesty of the Director, and told me that he was a stranger to all the self-important airs and painful respect which so many officials here demand. I was accustomed to seeing Father on the left side of Resident or Assistant Resident, never mind how much younger the latter might be.

But not only I, Europeans even are seriously annoyed by the silly regulations of rank here. The newly arrived European officials and the Regents take their places upon chairs while the cold ground covered (and sometimes uncovered) with a bamboo mat, is good enough for a native wedono, who has grown grey in the service.

The most petty European sits upon a chair, while native officials of any age, who are below the rank of regent, though they are often of distinguished ancestry, must sit upon the floor in their presence.

It certainly does not please the heart to see a grey wedono creep upon the ground before a young aspirant,[4]a youth who may have just left the school benches. But enough of that, it was only to explain why the courtesy of the Director, a man of such high authority, struck me so forcibly.

We heard the Director say to Father, "I have been all over Java and have talked with many chiefs, Regent. You have set the example by sending your girls to school. I have asked girls who were going to the grammar schools if they would like to go on with their studies, and they have all answered enthusiastically "Yes."

He asked Father where he thought the girls' school ought to be erected, whether in West, Middle or East Java.

O Stella, how my ears and eyes tingled and my heart beat with joy to hear that. At last we are to have light in our poor dark woman's world.

While Mijnheer talked to Father, Mevrouw talked to us. We drew near to her with such pleasure. She told me of the plan of her husband, and asked what I thought of it.

"A splendid idea, Mevrouw, which will be a blessing to the native women, but it would be a still greater blessing, if the girls were also given an opportunity to learn a vocation, that would place them in a position to make their own way in life, if after receiving an education, they should feel reluctant to go back into their old environment. And the woman whose spirit has been awakened, whose outlook has been broadened might not be able to live again in the world of her ancestors. She will have been taught what freedom means, and then shut up in a dungeon; taught to fly and then imprisoned in a cage. No, no, the truly enlightened woman could not possibly feel happy in our native environment, not as long as it remains as it is. There is only one road in life open for the native girl, and that is 'marriage.' And what marriage means among our people cannot be unknown to you, who have been so long in Java. Oh, we think it is splendid that your husband wishes to give girls advantages and education, but let that last be also a vocational education, and then your husband will truly have showered blessings upon our native world."

"Do you hear that?" she said enthusiastically to her husband. "This young lady asks vocational training for native girls."

Astonished, he turned to me and said, "Really, do you ask vocational training for girls? How would you arrange it? But tell us what you would like to be yourself?"

I felt all eyes fastened upon me; those of my parents burned into my face. I cast down my own eyes. There was a buzzing and roaring in my ears, but above it I seemed to hear the words "Kartini be brave, do not waver."

"But tell me what do you wish to be?"

"I know you wish to become a writer; but you do not have to be educated especially for that, you can become that by yourself."

Alas, for study I am too late; but at least I may "Raise my eyes on high and go humbly and quietly forward."

Mevrouw spoke to me for a long time about what you and I have discussed so often—"Woman." When we bade each other "Good-night," and were going to bed, she took my hands in both of hers, pressed them warmly and said "Little friend, we shall discuss this again some time; meanwhile I shall write to you often; will you do the same to me?"

The following morning we went with her part of the way, and during the three hours that we sat with her in the carriage she and I told each other so much. Although it was twelve o'clock when we separated the evening before, she had told her husband everything that she had learned from us.

"O Regent," she cried again and again, "Give me one of your daughters, let her come to Batavia with me. Do let this young lady come to visit me; I shall come and fetch her myself."

Father told her that he thought of going to Batavia this year, "But they must remain at home with Mama, Mevrouw!" With that she appeared overcome with distress; was it earnest or a jest?

They wish us to come to Batavia to plead our cause, and the cause of the native woman, in person before the high authorities. Oh, Stella, pray that if it should come to pass I shall be able to plead well.

At parting she said to me, "Be brave, have faith and courage, this cannot last for ever, some way will be found, be brave!"

Stella, am I dreaming or waking? Is there a happy future for us? Is it possible to hope that our dream is coming true? She has told me more but I dare not tell you now. It is still so far away, but it shines and beams before me like a star of hope. Later, Stella dear, when I have it in my arms and hold it tight, so that it cannot slip away, you shall know what it is. I have asked my sisters if I were really alive; I felt so unspeakably happy. Pray for me, dearest, that this may be no illusion, no empty mirage, that would be terrible.

When the Director saw our work, painting, embossing, etc., he asked if it would not be possible in a year's time for us to have an exhibition. He was sorry that we had not sent more to the French exposition.

The next morning he said that he would speak to influential people at Batavia and see if an exposition of native work could not be arranged there for next year. "You must send a great deal of what you have shown us."

O Stella I could not speak; I turned to him and to her with tears in my eyes.

We felt as though we were in a dream, there was no yesterday—no tomorrow for us; only the joyous, splendid day existed. It made me dizzy, made me afraid! What if these dreams and illusions should vanish like smoke!

When I came home, I took up my pen at once to write to our friend Mevrouw Ovink. A few days ago I sent her a cry of despair, and my dear Moedertje must know that her daughter is happy again. I have told her nothing of what I have written here for you alone, I have only told her that I felt happy and full of the joy of life.

But I have told you everything, with just one exception, although you have a right to that too. For you have comforted me when I was in despair; your enthusiasm has given me strength, when I was weak. Stella, if I can ever do anything for my sisters in Java, it will be solely and only because of you.

I told you that Mevrouw Ter Horst invited me to write for her paper on the condition of the native woman; she believed that I was too reserved and suggested a form herself under which I could treat the subject: "A Talk between Two Regents' Daughters." She on her part will do everything to further the good cause.

I have Father's permission, Stella. So much lies under my hand; God grant that I can bring it to maturity.

All too often I write sketchy, commonplace things taken from our own lives. One of them appeared in the "Echo." As pseudonym I chose "Tiga Soedara" (The Three Sisters), although we three are one. Soon the identity of "Tiga Soedara" was discovered, and there was a notice about my work in theLocomotief(a daily paper here in India).

I found it tiresome; I should gladly have kept my writing secret; I do not like to be discussed. It may sound ungracious, but truly I did not deserve so many compliments. Still that notice in the paper had its good side too, and a very good one at that, for the next month two numbers of a new newspaper for natives were sent to Father, with the request that they be given to us, and also a letter came asking for the co-operation of "Tiga Soedara."

This is the first Netherland newspaper that has been founded for natives, and I expect many blessings for my people through the Dutch language. It is like our lilies! Dutch flowers which bloom in added fragrance and beauty when they are transplanted to distant India! TheEchois now theNederlandsche Taal.

You can easily imagine that I wrote an enthusiastic letter to its editor and founder (Director of the High School at Probolingo), placing my services at his disposal.

And soon a letter came from him with a list of subjects which he would like to have treated by me: the first was "Native Education for Girls"; after that "A Native Institute" and "Javanese Art." Kartini never say I cannot—but I will. I will, Stella, I will. I hope fervently that you have not over-estimated my strength. I shall do my best.

Now I shall tell you something else. We three have begun to study French out of the little books of Servaas de Bruijn. We have wrestled through most of the four volumes and we now want you to recommend to us some simple, easy French books (not School books).

Father has also given us a German grammar. When we get through with our French studies, and have German under our thumbs, we hope to begin English, if we live long enough.

We try now to read French illustrated papers, but reading and understanding are two different things; is it not true?

In the beginning we made the stupidest mistakes, but we have improved slowly and we feel in fine good humour. Roekmini declared once that she had dreamed in French, she was with Chateaubriand and in Louisiana, the beautiful country of which he wrote.

The French language has many resemblances to ours, and the "h" is exactly like ours. Our new friend said to her husband, "They are anxious to learn languages, how glad I should be to teach them myself."

Yesterday I received a letter from her; it was twenty pages long. She wrote so affectionately and said that she felt that she would see us again. "Trust to the future," she wrote. And I will trust, so long as I know that I have you and her on my side. Her letter made me ashamed just as yours do; you and she think too well of me.

And yet, Stella, life is so full, of riddles and of secrets. Human beings are subject to change and it is not always from feeble character. Circumstances can come into life, which in the twinkling of an eye will turn a hero into a coward. Do not judge any deed, never mind how base it may appear, till you know all the causes which lead to it.

I have experienced much in these last days, many different emotions. First I was almost in despair because my dream of freedom seemed to lie deeply buried in the ground.

Then the friends from Batavia came and such happiness came over me that it overwhelmed me; I was as though intoxicated! and then I was frightened and awakened by a pain so heavy that I thought I should not be able to breathe; that was not on account of myself, but of another whom I love with my whole soul.

Why must happiness and misery follow one another so quickly?

Poor dear Father, he has suffered so much, and life still brings him new disappointments. Stella, my Father has no one but his children. We are his joy, his consolation, his all. I love my freedom, the idea is always with me and the fate of my sisters goes to my heart; I would be ready for any sacrifice by which good could come to them. I should only look on it as happiness—the greatest happiness that could ever come to me in life. But my Father is dearer to me than all these put together.

Stella, call me a coward, call me weak, for I cannot be anything else; if Father is set against this dedication of myself, never mind how my heart may cry out, I shall hold it still.

I have not the courage to wound that true heart that beats so warmly for me, and to make it bleed again; for it has bled all too much already and I myself have not been altogether without guilt.

You say that you cannot understand why every one must marry. You say to oppose that "must" with "will"; as for me I should certainly say it in so far as others are concerned, but never in opposition to Father; especially now, that I know what heavy grief oppresses him. Whatever I shall have to do will not be looked upon as compulsory because of a "must" but as something which I freely take upon myself for his sake.

I write, paint and do everything because Father takes pleasure in it. I shall work hard and try my best to do something good so that he may be proud of me. You may call me foolish, morbid, but I cannot help it. I should be miserable if Father should set himself against my plan of freedom, but I should be still more miserable if my dearest wishes should be fulfilled and at the same time, I should lose Father's love.

But I shall never lose that; I will not believe it possible, though I could break his heart. From any one he could endure disappointment better than from me. Because perhaps he loves me a little more than the others, and I love him so dearly.

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