XLVI

[1]To Heer E.C. Abendanon.

August 20th, 1902.[1]

Lately we have received some people from Batavia who admire the art of our people, and who wish to do much for it. They were heads of the governing board ofEast and Westin India, who wished to have examples of native art for Santa Claus (Sinterklaas), and were anxious for Japara to be well represented. We have been busy with that work. It is such a pleasure to us to be able to work for the furtherance of our people's art. We think it a great privilege to be the avenue through which some of these expressions of their soul find a way into a new world. Works of art that compel wonder and admiration are made by the despised Javanese, whom the world in its simplicity has patronized.

When one looks at the splendid examples which we have, and after that sees their simple creator, and the primitive tools with which he works, one is filled with reverence for his work, and feels instinctively that here one is face to face with a true artist. Once when we were in ecstacies over something which he had made, we said to him "Oh, where did you get such beautiful designs?"

The lowered eyes were raised, and with an embarrassed laugh, he answered "From my heart, bendoro."[2]We were delighted at his answer, and afterwards we laughed so at ourselves, because we had sat upon the steps, and he was in a respectful attitude upon the ground, humbling himself before us, to whom he was a hundred fold superior.

It is splendid that through the untiring efforts of yourself and some others, the eyes of the Netherlands are beginning to be opened to that important part of a child's education—reading. Holland may well congratulate herself that she possesses such noble strength, which sets itself with heart and soul toward the forming of the mind and spirit of her youth. And in that respect the Dutch child is far more fortunate than the Javanese, who possesses no books except school-books.

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 theAmsterdammerto 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 theWillem 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 safelyWillem 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."

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.

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.

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.

October 27, 1902.[1]

In spite of all that we have suffered, we know that we are fortunate, for there are many poor creatures in even more miserable circumstances than ourselves, who without friends, without a single confidante—must struggle on alone through life never hearing a cordial sympathetic word; never meeting an understanding look, or receiving a warm pressure of the hand. We feel that we are richly blessed in the possession of love and friendship such as yours.

If you will always love and trust us, little Mother, you will make us happy. We thank you again and again, for your love and sympathy. You see we are answering your letter at once, and we shall put it away and keep it as a sacred relic!

We pray and entreat you, think no more about our happiness. We have told you so often that it is not our own happiness we seek, but that of others.

When we go to Europe, we do not expect to gather roses for ourselves.

I protest we expect nothing of Europe—nothing of the "happiness" of which European girls dream, nor do we expect that we will find much friendship and sympathy there, or that we will feel at home in a strange environment. We hope only for one thing, to find there knowledge and enlightenment. It will not matter if we do not find it gay in Europe, if we but receive there what we seek.

We do not expect the European world to make us happier. The time has long gone by when we seriously believed that the European is the only true civilization, supreme and unsurpassed.

Forgive us, if we say it, but do you yourself think the civilization of Europe perfect? We should be the last not to see and appreciate the great good that is in your world, but will you not acknowledge that there is also much that brings the very name of civilization into ridicule?

We complain about pettiness and smallness of soul in our own surroundings; do not imagine for a moment that we think that in Holland we shall not find pettiness too.

You know better than we, that among the thousands that are called civilized by the world, only a very few are that in reality. That a broad mind is not possessed by every European from whom it might be expected. And even in the most elegant, exclusive and brilliant salons; prejudice, intolerance and short sightedness are no infrequent visitors.

We do not think of Holland as an ideal country, not in the least. Judging from what we have seen of the Hollanders here, we can certainly reckon upon much in that small, cold country that will wound our sensibilities and bitterly grieve us. We Javanese are reproached as born liars, wholly untrustworthy, and we are called ingratitude personified. We have not only read this many times, but we have heard it spoken aloud, and that was a fair test of the speaker's delicacy of feeling.

We only smile when we read or hear such pleasantries, we think to ourselves of European society life which often gives glaring proof of the truth and sincerity of those who sit in high places and look down with scorn upon the lying, untrustworthy Javanese.

We came in contact with Europeans very little until a few years ago; the first occasion on which we found ourselves in a European crowd, was at the time of the coronation of her Majesty. How admirable was the comedy play of the European world behind the scenes!

At that festival, my reverence for Europeans received its death blow. We saw two ladies in earnest speech, intimately holding one another by the arm, their heads confidentially close; we heard affectionate words here and there; good friends, thought we. A gentleman came and broke up the tête-à-tête. As he walked away with one of the ladies, we heard her say: "Such a cat."

While the remaining lady said to another nearby, "That unfortunate creature, she rigs herself up so ridiculously." Just a little while before she had declared that the dear one was charmingly dressed.

We received blow after blow that evening, through this, and other heart-rending little scenes. We saw red, fiery men's faces—"gentlemen" who spread the horrible breath of alcohol around them, when they spoke. And, oh, the noise and racket everywhere! We grew cold to our very hearts, and longed eagerly to get away from these "civilized" surroundings. If we had been base, and had told what these friends had said of one another, a formal civil war would have broken out!

Soon after that a girl wrote us of a visit which she had paid to an alleged friend. She had been so charmingly, so cordially received. A little after, we met this "friend" and thanked her for her kind reception of our little friend. She said, "I think her a sullen girl; she always looks so sour and waspish."

Innumerable times we have witnessed fantastic kisses between persons whom we knew hated one another. And it was not the despised "nonas"[2]who did this, but white people of unmixed blood; educated, and brought up with every advantage. We saw too how harmless, simple "nonas" were held up to ridicule by clever, educated Hollanders. "The Javanese is a born liar—wholly untrustworthy." We leave the accusation there. We only ask that when a child sins through ignorance, and a full grown, thinking person commits the same sin deliberately and with calculation, which of the two is the most guilty? We think sometimes with reason, what is civilization? Does it consist in a commanding tone, or in hypocrisy?

Oh, what do we do? what have we said? Forgive us little Mother. You know that it is not our intention to grieve you by being honest. Is it not true that honesty is the basis of our friendship—of our love? Often it is not polite to be honest. We do not enjoy being impolite; we are Javanese, to whom "politeness" belongs as a natural heritage.

We think that you ought to know our opinion of some things in your civilization. Because you seem to think that we look upon the European world as our ideal. It is not always there that we have found true education, and we know that you must think the same thing. True education is not the exclusive property of those who have had the advantage of books; it is to be found as well among the people upon whom a majority of the white race, convinced as it is of its own excellence, looks down with disdain. Our people have faults, certainly, but they also have virtues which could very well serve as examples to the civilized nations. We have degenerated, gone backward you see, or we would not have lost what a superficial glance can recognize as one of the peculiar qualities of the Javanese people—modesty.

Father said to me once, "Ni, do not imagine that there are many Europeans that really love you." Father did not have to tell me that, I knew it very well myself. We could count upon our fingers, and we would not have to use two hands either, those who are really our sincere friends. Most of them pretend sympathy for effect, or through calculation, with some end in view. It is amusing; if one looks at the humorous side of such things, then one is not distressed.

People often do such foolish things. Do not imagine that I do not see that many of those who now talk about native art, only do it to make themselves agreeable to me, and not because they have any real appreciation of it. Before me every one is enthusiastic. Is it from conviction? But that does not matter, the result will be good, and through such people the real friends of Java and the Javanese may be reached.

We know why theEchois glad to publish our articles. It is because we are a novelty, and make a fine advertisement for that paper. The Dutch Lelie placed its columns at my disposal, and time and again the directress has asked for letters from me. Why? For the advertisement. Letters from a true daughter of the Orient, from a real "Javanese girl," thoughts from such a half-wild creature, written by herself in a European language, how interesting! If in despair we cry aloud our miseries in the Dutch language, again it is so very "interesting." And if—which may God forbid—some day we should die of our broken hearts—then it would all be so terribly "interesting." Oh, there are people who think that only the interesting is desirable.

There is much that is beautiful in the Javanese religious law. It is only a pity that it is not taken more as a symbol.

People take the things that the wise men preach, literally. They abstain from food and sleep; as now interpreted it means, that one must eat and sleep as little as possible and all will be well in this life and in the life hereafter. The great idea that is back of it, they pass by. That is "It is not eating and sleeping that is the aim of life."

I am a child of Buddha, and it is taught that we should eat no animal food. When I was a child, I was very ill. The doctors could not help me, they could suggest nothing. Then a Chinese convict,[3]who had been friendly with us children, begged to be allowed to help me. My parents consented, and I was healed. What the medicines of learned men could not accomplish was done by "quackery." He healed me simply by giving me ashes to drink of the burnt-offerings dedicated to a Chinese idol. Through drinking that potion, I became the child of that Chinese divinity, Santik-Kong of Welahan. A year or so ago we made a visit to the holy one. There is a little golden image before which incense is burned day and night. In times of epidemic it is carried around in state to exorcise the evil spirits. The birthday of the holy one is celebrated with great brilliancy and Chinese come from far and near. Old Chinese residents have told us the legend of the golden image, which for them really lives.

Our land is full of mysticism, of fairy tales, and of legends. You have certainly heard many times of the enviable calmness with which the Javanese meets the most frightful blows of destiny. It is Tekdir—foreordained, they say, and are submissive. The fate of every man is determined, even before he sees the light of life. Happiness and misery are meted out to him before his birth. No man may turn away that which God has decreed. But it is the duty of every one to guard against misfortune as far as possible; only when it comes despite their efforts, is it Tekdir. And against Tekdir nothing in the world can prevail.

That tells us to be steadfast and to push forward and to let happen, what happen will, to submit calmly to the inevitable, and then to say it is Tekdir. That is why our people would not set themselves for ever against that which had actually happened. Brought face to face with a fact, they are face to face with Tekdir and are submissive. God give us strength.

We are in deep sorrow. We are preparing to go away from our loved ones. To break loose the bonds which until now have been our happiness. But better a sound little hut than a castle in ruins, better a strong little skiff than to go in a splendid steam-boat and be driven upon a reef.

For a long time now I have had to go to bed without Father's good-night greeting. Until a few months ago, Father never went to bed without stopping first outside our chamber door, and putting his head inside to see his little daughter once more and to call her name before he went to rest. If the door was locked, he knocked, softly; his little daughter must hear and know that she was not forgotten.

Gone now is that dear, dear time. I have had much love—too much—all to myself. For when one has had too much, then there must be another, who goes lacking. Now it is my turn to do without. I have bathed long enough in the over-flow.

It is hard for me, but for him, my Father, I hope and pray fervently that he may be so fortunate as to banish me from his heart utterly. My poor, dear loved one will then be spared much misery. I shall always love him dearly in spite of everything; he is more to me than ever, and I am thankful for all the happy years that have gone by. But for my poor Father, it would be better had I never become a child of Buddha, he would then possess me wholly. Even though it were only in memory.

What Nellie said is true: "Life brings more cruel partings than death." Those whom death takes away from us in the bloom of love and friendship remain more surely ours in spirit than those whom life leaves to us.

My dearest Father, that he should find this out in his old age and from his favourite child! May God forgive me, but it is not he alone who has suffered and who will suffer; we too have striven and suffered. We pray God fervently that in the course of time he may see the truth and will learn to be proud of his little daughters. That we may atone to him in some measure for the deep disappointment we are causing him now.

[1]To Mevrouw Abendanon.

[2]A half-breed woman, child of a native mother and European father.

[3]Formerly in Java convicts were released from prison to work the government lands.

November 21st, 1902.[1]

When we love, is it not our earnest wish that the object of our love should be happy? and those are happy who love and are loved in return. I am not speaking here of the love of man and woman; that is a delicate question and one that I am not capable of judging. But I mean a love which one can feel for many; and never mind how much for one, for another in just the same measure.

Is it selfish when we expect those whom we love and who love us in return, to rejoice in our happiness, even when it consists in the giving of our hearts to another?

[1]To Mevrouw Abendanon.

November 21st, 1902.[1]

Three of the four shelves of our book-case are plump full of books; the fourth we keep free for photographs and other souvenirs, so that we have all of our friends before us. You are between Mamma and Brother Kartono. A little further away is Dr. Adriana, the learned man who is such a friend of humanity. Then comes a charming little creature, a pure, fresh, unspoiled flower of nature, whom we love very much. Papa, too, has a place of honour. You are in good company truly. And we have you with us—every day; in fact, the day has not begun for us until we have seen our friends and looked into their dear, true faces.

We have an idea that we shall see you just once, and that the meeting will be brief. A meeting—a brief greeting and then a—parting; all in a few moments of time. We shall catch, as it were, a glimpse of one another, and then vanish for ever—each from the other's ken. It is silly, but we have this idea and are not able to get it out of our heads. But why do we yearn for the personal, bodily meeting when the spiritual meeting is so pleasant? We ought not to need anything more—is not the spiritual the best in us?

What do you think of the Japaraesque fire-screen? It is splendid, is it not? Hail to all noble friends of Java, who brought the art of her people, and with it the beauty of their souls, into the light! We hope fervently that the interest now taken will not dwindle as has that in all too many other things, and that it will not prove only a fleeting fashion.

No, it shall not do that, although we realize that the majority of those who now show interest in our art do so only because it is the fashion; but those who gave the movement its first impetus did so from sincere conviction, and that will prevail in the long run.

You see, I should enjoy living so many different kinds of lives. I should like to be in a mining district—among mine workers; or in a native Christian community, among native Christians. In a Chinese or Malay camp, or what not. But above all I should like to experience life, as it is lived in Dessa and Kampong among our own people; that has always had a great charm for me. I know that my people would then grow still nearer to my heart. One cannot learn the soul of a people without living and working among them. The love that I have for our people is only a foretaste of what I should feel under more intimate circumstances. We try to come in contact with the people as much as possible. When we go out alone, we always stop and pay a visit to some of the Kampong houses. In the beginning they looked at us with strange, unfriendly eyes, but it is not so any longer.

A child's hand is quickly filled, so too is the hand of a childlike people. They are very sensitive to kindness and also have a quick sense of humour. Under the influence of a ready word which will bring a hearty laugh, a sullen karwei is changed into a cheerful human being. Every day for some months, we have had a gang of workmen from the water-staat on our place. They are busy building an addition to our house. We are going to have a splendid pendopo at our rear. During the rest hour, we often go and talk a little with the work-folk. Picture your sister, sitting on a heap of sand, surrounded by workmen who have almost no clothes on their bodies and who are smoking straw, or eating rice. Naturally we must begin the conversation, for an inferior would rather be silent a whole day than to speak first to his superior.

They work under the supervision of an "Indo."[2]

He is good to his people, who come and go freely in his presence, and are always treated with consideration. We often hear them make little pleasantries with the toewan, a certain indication that the "baas" is good to them. If they receive orders to work over-time, we never hear them grumble. That is pleasant, is it not? And this sinjo[3]might well serve as an example.

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