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Title: Letters of a Javanese Princess

Author: Raden Adjeng Kartini

Commentator: Louis Couperus

Translator: Agnes Louise Symmers

Release date: December 13, 2010 [eBook #34647]
Most recently updated: March 19, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34647

Credits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF A
JAVANESE PRINCESS ***

LETTERS OF A JAVANESE
PRINCESS
By

RADEN ADJENG KARTINI
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL DUTCH

By

AGNES LOUISE SYMMERS

WITH A FOREWORD BY LOUIS COUPERUS

LONDON: DUCKWORTH & CO.

First published in 1921

Contents

"When you sail from Chambra fifteen thousand miles on a course
between south and southeast, you come to a great island called Java.
And experienced mariners of those Islands who know the matter well
say that it is the greatest Island in the world and has a compass of three
thousand miles. It is subject to a great King and tributary to no one else
in the world. The people are idolaters. The Island is of surpassing
wealth, producing black pepper, nutmegs, spikenard, galingale, cubebs,
cloves and all other kinds of spices.
"This Island is also frequented by a vast amount of shipping, and by
merchants who buy and sell costly goods from which they reap great
profit. Indeed, the treasure of this Island is so great as to be past
telling."

Marco Polo.

NOTE
The letters of Raden Adjeng Kartini were first published at the Hague in
1911 under the title, "Door Duisternis tot Licht," (from Darkness into
Light). They were collected and edited by Dr. J.H. Abendanon, former
Minister of Education and Industry for Netherland-India. Many of the
letters were written to him and to his wife "Moedertje." Dr. Abendanon has
given me permission to publish this English version, which is a selection
comprising about two-thirds of the original book.
I also wish to acknowledge my debt to Dr. Leonard Van Noppen, who, when
Queen Wilhelmina Professor of Dutch Literature at Columbia University,
first called my attention to the book and told me something of Kartini's
story.
A.L.S.

FOREWORD
When the letters of Raden Adjeng Kartini were published in Holland, they
aroused much interest and awakened a warm sympathy for the writer. She
was the young daughter of a Javanese Regent, one of the "princesses" who
grow up and blossom in sombre obscurity and seclusion, leading their
monotonous and often melancholy lives within the confines of the
Kaboepaten, as the high walled Regent's palaces are called.
The thought of India, or as we now say, perhaps more happily, Java, had a
strange fascination for me even as a child. I was charmed by the weird
mystery of its stories, which frightened even while they charmed me.
Although I was born in Holland, our family traditions had been rooted in
Java. My father began his official career there as a Judge, and my mother
was the daughter of a Governor General, while my older brothers had
followed their father's example and were officials under the Colonial
Government.
At nine years of age I was taken to the inscrutable and far off land round
which my early fancy had played; and I passed five of my school years in
Batavia. At the end of those five years, I felt the same charm and the same
mystery. The thought of Java became almost an obsession. I felt that while
we Netherlanders might rule and exploit the country, we should never be
able to penetrate its mystery. It seemed to me that it would always be
covered by a thick veil, which guarded its Eastern soul from the strange
eyes of the Western conqueror. There was a quiet strength, "Een Stille
Kracht"[1] unperceived by our cold, business-like gaze. It was something
intangible, and almost hostile, with a silent, secret hostility that lurked in
the atmosphere, in nature and above all, in the soul of the natives. It
menaced from the slumbering volcanoes, and lay hidden in the mysterious
shadows of the rustling bamboos. It was in the bright, silver moonlight
when the drooping palm trees trembled in the wind until they seemed to play
a symphony so gentle and so complaining that it moved me to my soul. I do
not know whether this was poetic imagination ever prone to be
supersensitive, or in reality the "Quiet Strength," hidden in the heart of the

East and eternally at war with the spirit of the West. It is certainly true that
the Javanese has never been an open book to the Netherlander. The
difference of race forms an abyss so deep that though they may stand face
to face and look into each other's eyes, it is as though they saw nothing.
The Javanese woman of noble birth is even more impenetrable. The life of a
Raden Adjeng or a Raden Ajoe, is a thing apart. Even the Dutch officials
and rulers of the country know nothing of the lives of these secluded
"princesses," as we like to call the wives and daughters of the Regents,
though they themselves lay no claim to a title which in Europe ranks so
high.
Suddenly a voice was heard from the depths of this unknown land. It rose
from behind the high protecting wall that had done its work of subjection
and concealment through the ages. It was gentle, like the melodious song of
a little bird in a cage—in a costly cage it is true, and surrounded by the
tenderest care, but still in a cage that was also a prison. It was the voice of
Raden Adjeng Kartini, which sounded above the walls of the close-barred
Kaboepaten. It was like the cry of a little bird that wanted to spread its
wings free in the air, and fly towards life. And the sound grew fuller and
clearer, till it became the rich voice of a woman.
She was shut in by aristocratic traditions and living virtually imprisoned as
became a young "princess" of Java; but she sang of her longing for life and
work and her voice rose clearer and stronger. It penetrated to the distant
Netherlands, and was heard there with wonder and with delight. She was
singing a new song, the first complaint that had ever gone forth from the
mysterious hidden life of the Javanese woman. With all the energy of her
body and soul she wanted to be free, to work and to live and to love.
Then the complaint became a song of rejoicing. For she not only longed to
lead the new life of the modern woman, but she had the strength to
accomplish it, and more than that, to win the sympathy of her family and of
her friends for her ideals. This little "princess" lifted the concealing veil
from her daily life and not only her life, her thoughts were revealed. An
Oriental woman had dared to fight for feminism, even against her tenderly
loved parents. For although her father and mother were enlightened for

noble Javanese, they had at first strongly opposed her ideas as unheard of
innovations.
She wanted to study and later to become a teacher—to open a school for
the daughters of Regents, and to bring the new spirit into their lives. She
battled bravely, she would not give up; in the end, she won.
Raden Adjeng Kartini freed herself from the narrow oppression of tradition,
and the simple language of these letters chants a paean "From Darkness
into Light."[2] The mist of obscurity is cleared away from her land and her
people. The Javanese soul is shown as simple, gentle, and less hostile than
we Westerners had ever dared to hope. For the soul of this girl was one with
the soul of her people, and it is through her that a new confidence has
grown up between the West and the East, between the Netherlands and
Java. The mysterious "Quiet Strength" is brought into the light, it is tender,
human and full of love, and Holland may well be grateful to the hand that
revealed it.
This noble and pure soul was not destined to remain long upon earth. Had
she lived, who knows what Raden Adjeng Kartini might not have
accomplished for the well being of her country and her people; above all,
for the Javanese woman and the Javanese child. She was the first Regent's
daughter to break the fixed tradition in regard to marriage; it was
customary to give the bride to a strange bridegroom, whom she had never
seen, perhaps never even heard of, until her wedding day. Kartini chose her
own husband, a man whom she loved, but her happy life with him was cut
short by her early death.
It is sometimes granted to those whom the gods love to bring their work to
fruition in all the splendour of youth, in the springtime or the summer of
their lives. To have worked and to have completed a great task, when one is
young, so that the world is left richer for all time—is not that the most
beautiful of all the gifts of the gods?
LOUIS COUPERUS.
[1] See Couperus' novel "Een Stille Kracht."
[2] "Door Duisternis tot Licht"—title under which Kartini's Letters were first
published in Holland.

INTRODUCTION
These letters which breathe the modern spirit, in all of its restless intensity,
were written by a girl of the Orient, reared in an ancient and outworn
civilization. They unfold the story of the writer with unconscious simplicity
and present a vivid picture of Javanese life and manners.
But perhaps their chief interest lies in their value as a human document.
In them the old truth of the oneness of humanity is once more made
manifest and we see that the magnificent altruism, the spirit of inquiry, and
the almost morbid desire for self-searching and analysis that characterize
the opening years of the Twentieth Century were not peculiar to Europe or
to America, but were universal and belonged to the world, to the East as
well as to the West.
Kartini, that was her only name—Raden Adjeng is a title—wrote to her
Dutch friends in the language of the Netherlands. In her home circle she
spoke always Javanese, and she was Javanese in her intense love for her
land and people, as well as in dress and manners.
She did not live to see the work that has been accomplished in her name
during the last ten years. Today there are "Kartini Schools" in all parts of
Java. The influence of her life and teachings is perhaps greater than that of
any other woman of modern times because it reaches all of the thirty-eight
millions of Javanese and extends to some extent throughout the entire East.
She did not desire to make of her people pseudo-Europeans but better
Javanese. Not the material freedom for which during the three hundred
years of Dutch rule the Javanese of the past had sometimes waged a bloody
warfare, but the greater freedom of the mind and of the spirit.
The Dutch rule had become enlightened. In local affairs the Javanese had
self-government under their own officials. But they were bowed down by
superstition and under the sway of tradition. The "adat," or law which
cannot be changed, was fostered by religion. They were imbued with all the

fatalism of the Mohammedan, the future belonged to "Tekdir" or Fate and it
was vain to rebel against its decrees. But Kartini rebelled against "Tekdir."
She refused to believe in the righteousness of the ancient law that a girl
must marry, or breaking that law, bring everlasting disgrace upon her
family.
She realized that the freedom of woman could only come through economic
independence. And personally she said that she had rather be a kitchen
maid, than be forced to marry a strange and unknown man. For in well-bred
Javanese circles girls were brought up according to the most rigid
Mohammedan canons and closely guarded from the eyes of men.
Dr. Abendanon, the compiler of Kartini's letters, says that although he had
lived for twenty-five years in Java, she and her sisters were the first young
girls of noble birth that he had ever seen.
Kartini wanted to go to Holland to study, to return home when she had
gained a broader knowledge and experience, equipped for teaching the
daughters of her own people. She wished to help them through education, to
break with the stultifying traditions of the past. Although always a
Mohammedan, marriage with more than one wife was abhorrent to her.
True progress seemed impossible in a polygamous society for men or for
women. Furthermore polygamy was not commanded or even approved of
by Mohammed himself; it had been merely permitted.
After years of conflict between her affection for her family and the
principles in which she believed, Kartini won the entire confidence both of
her father and of her mother. Her mother was an exponent of the best ideals
of Oriental womanhood, excelling in care of the home and filled with love
and sympathy for her husband and children.
Kartini was an innovator who sought to break new paths for her people, but
in reaching out for the new and untried she gained rather than lost in respect
for the old fashioned virtues of her kind. Her interests were human, and not
merely feministic—which cannot always be said of our own feminism.
Kartini's biography is brief, and her life almost uneventful so far as outward
happenings go.

She was born on the 21st of April, 1879, the daughter of Raden Mas Adipati
Sosroningrat, Regent of Japara. His father, the Regent of Demak, Pangèran
Ario Tjondronegoro, was an enlightened man who had given European
educations to all of his sons and who is described by his grand-daughter
Kartini as—"the first regent of middle Java to unlatch his door to that guest
from over the sea—Western civilization."
The Regent of Japara went still further as became the next generation. He
sent his daughters to the free grammar school for Europeans at Semarang so
that they might learn Dutch.
Kartini's best friend at school was a little Hollander, Letsy, the daughter of
the head master. A question of Letsy's, "What are you going to be when you
grow up?" both puzzled and interested her. When she went home after
school was over, she repeated the question anxiously, "What am I going to
be when I grow up?" Her father, who loved her very dearly, did not answer
but smiled and pinched her cheek. An older brother overheard her and said,
"What should a girl become, why a Raden Ajoe of course." Raden Ajoe is
the title of a Javanese married woman of high rank, while the unmarried
daughter of a regent is Raden Adjeng.
In Kartini a spirit of rebellion was awakened which grew with the years.
Even as a child she vowed that she would not become merely a Raden Ajoe,
she would be strong, combat all prejudice and shape her own destiny. But
she was soon to feel the weight of convention pressing upon her with
inexorable force. When she reached the age of twelve and a half she was
considered by her parents old enough to leave school and remain at home in
seclusion according to the established usage. Some day there would have to
be a wedding and a Javanese bridegroom was chosen by the girl's parents
and often never seen by his bride until after the ceremony, as her presence
was not required at that solemnity.
Kartini implored her father, on her knees, to be allowed to go on with her
studies. But he felt bound by the hitherto unbroken conventions of his race
and she went into the "box" as it was called, passing four long years without
ever once going beyond the boundaries of the Kaboepaten.
During those years reading was her greatest pleasure, and her father was
proud of her intelligence and kept her supplied with Dutch books. She did

not always understand what she read, but would often be guided through the
difficult places by her father or by her favourite brother Kartono, who felt a
warm sympathy for his sister.
But the spirit of progress slowly awakened even in slumbering Java, and
when Kartini was sixteen, she was released from her imprisonment.
Her first journey into the outside world was to accompany her parents to the
festivities held in honour of the coronation of Queen Wilhelmina.
This caused a great scandal in conservative Javanese society. But Kartini
and her sisters did not have the freedom for which they longed, they could
not go out into the world and fight its battles. They could only take well
chaperoned little excursions and meet the guests, both men and women, of
their father's household. They were free very much as a delicately nurtured
Victorian young lady would have been free, half a century ago.
In 1901 the Minister of Education and Industry for Netherland India was
Dr. J.H. Abendanon.[1] He took a deep interest in the well-being and
progress of the native Javanese, and realized the need of schools for native
girls. At that time there was none in Java.
He had heard of the enlightened Regent of Japara, and of the example
which he had set to his fellow countrymen in educating his own daughters.
Accompanied by his wife Dr. Abendanon went to Japara to obtain the
assistance of the Regent in interesting the native official world in his
project.
A school for native girls had been the dream of Kartini and her sisters. With
her, the idea had become almost an obsession. Her longing for education
had gathered force and widened in its significance. It no longer meant the
shaping of an independent career for herself, but a means to an end of work
among her people.
Dr. Abendanon, in describing the first meeting with Kartini, said that when
she and her sisters came forward in their picturesque native costume they
made a most charming impression, but the charm was heightened when
they spoke to him in fluent Dutch. Kartini said that a girls' school was the

subject nearest her heart but asked that it also be a vocational school, fitting
the girl for self-support should she desire it.
The influence and friendship of the Abendanons became a great comfort
and support to Kartini. Mevrouw Abendanon was called Moedertje (little
mother) and many letters were written to her.
Kartini was never able to go to Holland and study. Although her
disappointment was intense, she became convinced that her influence
among her own people would be stronger if she remained at home, free in
their eyes from the possibility of contamination by foreign ideas.
Acting upon the advice of Mevrouw Abendanon, she opened a school at
home for little girls. With the help of her sisters she instructed them in
elementary branches, in sewing and in cooking.
At last she obtained the permission of her father to continue her own studies
at Batavia. But she did not go to Batavia. Nor did she leave the house of her
parents in the way that she had planned.
She fell in love like any Western girl, and was married in 1903 to Raden
Adipati Djojo Adiningrat, Regent of Rembang. He had been educated in
Holland, and had many enlightened ideas for the advancement of his
people.
The dreams of Kartini were as his own, she had his full sympathy and their
work in the future would be carried on together. Both of them were
interested in the ancient history of Java, the sagas and stories of the past.
They wished to make a collection of these, they also felt a warm interest in
the revival of Javanese art, in wood carving, textile weaving, dyeing, work
in gold and copper and tortoise shell.
After Kartini was married her little school was continued at Rembang, and
some of the wood carvers who had been working under her supervision at
Semarang were anxious to follow her to her new home.
"Although I am a modern woman what a strange bridal dower I shall have,"
she writes to Mevrouw Abendanon in discussing the plan for moving the
little children she was teaching and the wood carvers to Rembang.

A charming picture of the married life of Kartini is given in her own letters.
There was a year of hard work and increased responsibility, but also of great
happiness.
On the 17th of September 1904, four days after the birth of her son
Siengghi, she died.
In 1907, the first Raden Adjeng Kartini school was founded at Batavia. Its
inception was largely due to the efforts of Dr. Abendanon. The Governor
General of Netherland-India, the Queen Mother of Holland and many other
influential persons gave it their active support. A society at the Hague
known as the "Kartini-fonds" had been formed and under its patronage
there are now schools at Malang, Cheribon, Buitenzorg, Soerabaja,
Semarang and Soerakarta, as well as at Batavia. There is also a large
number of native Kartini schools under the direct management of native
Javanese.
The long slumber of Java has ended. The principles for which Kartini
suffered and struggled are now almost universally accepted by her fellow
countrymen. A Javanese girl, even though of noble birth, may now earn her
living without bringing disgrace upon her family. Women choose their own
husbands, and plural marriages are much less frequent among the younger
generation.
The time was ripe. It has been said that great men are the products of great
movements. There must always be some one to strike the note of leadership,
so firmly convinced of the righteousness of a given cause that he (or she)
goes blindly forward, forgetful of personal interest and of all selfish
considerations, combatting the world if need be, holding its ridicule as of no
account; and what is perhaps hardest of all, bringing sorrow and
disappointment to those that love them.
The prophet burned at the stake amid execrations and the conqueror who
receives the plaudits of the multitude, alike await the judgment of posterity.
Only in after years can we weigh the thing that they have wrought and
gauge its true value.
Kartini has stood the test of time. To the modern progressive Javanese she is
a national heroine, almost a patron saint. Her influence and her work live,

and are a vital factor in the prosperity and happiness of her country.
AGNES LOUISE SYMMERS.
Rye, New York April, 1920.
[1] Dr. Abendanon was the head of the Department of "Onderwijs, Eeredienst
and Nijverheid." Eeredienst is religious administration and observance, as in
Holland the church is a state institution.

LETTERS OF A JAVANESE PRINCESS

I
Japara, 25 May, 1899.[1]
I have longed to make the acquaintance of a "modern girl," that proud,
independent girl who has all my sympathy! She who, happy and self-reliant,
lightly and alertly steps on her way through life, full of enthusiasm and
warm feeling; working not only for her own well-being and happiness, but
for the greater good of humanity as a whole.
I glow with enthusiasm toward the new time which has come, and can truly
say that in my thoughts and sympathies I do not belong to the Indian world,
but to that of my pale sisters who are struggling forward in the distant West.
If the laws of my land permitted it, there is nothing that I had rather do than
give myself wholly to the working and striving of the new woman in
Europe; but age-long traditions that cannot be broken hold us fast cloistered
in their unyielding arms. Some day those arms will loosen and let us go, but
that time lies as yet far from us, infinitely far. It will come, that I know; it
may be three, four generations after us. Oh, you do not know what it is to
love this young, this new age with heart and soul, and yet to be bound hand
and foot, chained by all the laws, customs, and conventions of one's land.
All our institutions are directly opposed to the progress for which I so long
for the sake of our people. Day and night I wonder by what means our
ancient traditions could be overcome. For myself, I could find a way to
shake them off, to break them, were it not that another bond, stronger than
any age-old tradition could ever be, binds me to my world; and that is the
love which I bear for those to whom I owe my life, and whom I must thank
for everything. Have I the right to break the hearts of those who have given
me nothing but love and kindness my whole life long, and who have
surrounded me with the tenderest care?
But it was not the voices alone which reached me from that distant, that
bright, that new-born Europe, which made me long for a change in existing
conditions. Even in my childhood, the word "emancipation" enchanted my
ears; it had a significance that nothing else had, a meaning that was far

beyond my comprehension, and awakened in me an evergrowing longing
for freedom and independence—a longing to stand alone. Conditions both
in my own surroundings and in those of others around me broke my heart,
and made me long with a nameless sorrow for the awakening of my
country.
Then the voices which penetrated from distant lands grew clearer and
clearer, till they reached me, and to the satisfaction of some who loved me,
but to the deep grief of others, brought seed which entered my heart, took
root, and grew strong and vigorous.
And now I must tell you something of myself so that you can make my
acquaintance.
I am the eldest of the three unmarried daughters of the Regent of Japara,
and have six brothers and sisters. What a world, eh? My grandfather,
Pangèran Ario Tjondronegoro of Demak, was a great leader in the
progressive movement of his day, and the first regent of middle Java to
unlatch his door to that guest from over the sea—Western civilization. All
of his children had European educations; all of them have, or had (several
of them are now dead), a love of progress inherited from their father; and
these gave to their children the same upbringing which they themselves had
received. Many of my cousins and all my older brothers have gone through
the Hoogere Burger School—the highest institution of learning that we have
here in India; and the youngest of my three older brothers has been studying
for three years in the Netherlands, and two others are in the service of that
country. We girls, so far as education goes, fettered by our ancient traditions
and conventions, have profited but little by these advantages. It was a great
crime against the customs of our land that we should be taught at all, and
especially that we should leave the house every day to go to school. For the
custom of our country forbade girls in the strongest manner ever to go
outside of the house. We were never allowed to go anywhere, however, save
to the school, and the only place of instruction of which our city could
boast, which was open to us, was a free grammar school for Europeans.
When I reached the age of twelve, I was kept at home—I must go into the
"box." I was locked up, and cut off from all communication with the outside
world, toward which I might never turn again save at the side of a

bridegroom, a stranger, an unknown man whom my parents would choose
for me, and to whom I should be betrothed without my own knowledge.
European friends—this I heard later—had tried in every possible way to
dissuade my parents from this cruel course toward me, a young and life-
loving child; but they were able to do nothing. My parents were inexorable;
I went into my prison. Four long years I spent between thick walls, without
once seeing the outside world.
How I passed through that time, I do not know. I only know that it was
terrible. But there was one great happiness left me: the reading of Dutch
books and correspondence with Dutch friends was not forbidden. This—the
only gleam of light in that empty, sombre time, was my all, without which, I
should have fallen, perhaps, into a still more pitiable state. My life, my soul
even, would have been starved. But then came my friend and my deliverer
—the Spirit of the Age; his footsteps echoed everywhere. Proud, solid
ancient structures tottered to their foundation at his approach. Strongly
barricaded doors sprang open, some as of themselves, others only painfully
half way, but nevertheless they opened, and let in the unwelcome guest.
At last in my sixteenth year, I saw the outside world again. Thank God!
Thank God! I could leave my prison as a free human being and not chained
to an unwelcome bridegroom. Then events followed quickly that gave back
to us girls more and more of our lost freedom.

In the following year, at the time of the investiture of our young Princess,[2]
our parents presented us "officially" with our freedom. For the first time in
our lives we were allowed to leave our native town, and to go to the city
where the festivities were held in honour of the occasion. What a great and
priceless victory it was! That young girls of our position should show
themselves in public was here an unheard-of occurrence. The "world" stood
aghast; tongues were set wagging at the unprecedented crime. Our
European friends rejoiced, and as for ourselves, no queen was so rich as we.
But I am far from satisfied. I would go still further, always further. I do not
desire to go out to feasts, and little frivolous amusements. That has never
been the cause of my longing for freedom. I long to be free, to be able to
stand alone, to study, not to be subject to any one, and, above all, never,
never to be obliged to marry.

But we must marry, must, must. Not to marry is the greatest sin which the
Mohammedan woman can commit; it is the greatest disgrace which a native
girl can bring to her family.
And marriage among us—Miserable is too feeble an expression for it. How
can it be otherwise, when the laws have made everything for the man and
nothing for the woman? When law and convention both are for the man;
when everything is allowed to him?
Love! what do we know here of love? How can we love a man whom we
have never known? And how could he love us? That in itself would not be
possible. Young girls and men must be kept rigidly apart, and are never
allowed to meet.

I am anxious to know of your occupations. It is all very interesting to me. I
wish to know about your studies, I would know something of your Toynbee
evenings, and of the society for total abstinence of which you are so zealous
a member.
Among our Indian people, we have not the drink demon to fight, thank
God!—but I fear, I fear that when once—forgive me—your Western
civilization shall have obtained a foothold among us, we shall have that evil
to contend with too. Civilization is a blessing, but it has its dark side as
well. The tendency to imitate is inborn, I believe. The masses imitate the
upper classes, who in turn imitate those of higher rank, and these again
follow the Europeans.
Among us there is no marriage feast without drinking. And at the festivals
of the natives, where they are not of strong religious convictions, (and
usually they are Mohammedans only because their fathers, grandfathers and
remote ancestors were Mohammedans—in reality, they are little better than
heathen), large square bottles are always kept standing, and they are not
sparing in the use of these.
But an evil greater than alcohol is here and that is opium. Oh! the misery,
the inexpressible horror it has brought to my country! Opium is the pest of

Java. Yes, opium is far worse than the pest. The pest does not remain for
ever; sooner or later, it goes away, but the evil of opium, once established,
grows. It spreads more and more, and will never leave us, never grow less
—for to speak plainly—it is protected by the Government! The more
general the use of opium in Java, the fuller the treasury.
The opium tax is one of the richest sources of income of the Government—
what matter if it go well or ill with the people?—the Government prospers.
This curse of the people fills the treasury of the Dutch Indian Government
with thousands—nay, with millions. Many say that the use of opium is no
evil, but those who say that have never known India, or else they are blind.
What are our daily murders, incendiary fires, robberies, but the direct result
of the use of opium? True, the desire for opium is not so great an evil as
long as one can get it—when one has money to buy the poison; but when
one cannot obtain it—when one has no money with which to buy it, and is a
confirmed user of it? Then one is dangerous, then one is lost. Hunger will
make a man a thief, but the hunger for opium will make him a murderer.
There is a saying here—"At first you eat opium, but in the end it will
devour you."
It is terrible to see so much evil and to be powerless to fight against it.
That splendid book by Mevrouw Goekoop I know. I have read it three
times. I could never grow tired of it. What would I not give to be able to
live in Hilda's environment. Oh, that we in India had gone so far, that a
book could cause such violent controversy among us, as "Hilda van
Suylenburg" has in your country. I shall never rest till H.v.S. appears in my
own language to do good as well as harm to our Indian world. It is a matter
of indifference whether good or harm, if it but makes an impression, for that
shows that one is no longer sleeping, and Java is still in deep slumber. And
how will her people ever be awakened, when those who should serve as
examples, themselves love sleep so much. The greater number of European
women in India care little or nothing for the work of their sisters in the
Fatherland.
Will you not tell me something of the labours, the struggles, the sentiments,
of the woman of today in the Netherlands? We take deep interest in all that
concerns the Woman's Movement.

I do not know the modern languages. Alas! We girls are not allowed by our
law to learn languages; it was a great innovation for us to learn Dutch. I
long to know languages, not so much to be able to speak them, as for the far
greater joy of being able to read the many beautiful works of foreign
authors in their own tongue. Is it not true that never mind how good a
translation may be, it is never so fine as the original? That is always
stronger—more charming.
We have much time for reading, and reading is our greatest pleasure—we,
that is, the younger sisters and I. We three have had the same bringing up,
and are much with one another. We differ in age, each from the other, but
one year. Among us three there is the greatest harmony. Naturally we
sometimes have little differences of opinion, but that does not weaken the
tie that binds us together. Our little quarrels are splendid, I find them so: I
love the reconciliations which follow. It is the greatest of all lies—do you
not think so too?—that any two human beings can think alike in everything.
That cannot be; people who say that must be hypocrites.
I have not yet told you how old I am. I was just twenty last month. Strange,
that when I was sixteen I felt so frightfully old, and had so many
melancholy moods! Now that I can put two crosses behind me, I feel young
and full of the joy of life, and the struggle of life, too.
Call me simply Kartini; that is my name. We Javanese have no family
names. Kartini is my given name and my family name, both at the same
time. As far as "Raden Adjeng" is concerned, those two words are the title. I
told Mevrouw van Wermeskerken, when I gave her my address, not to put
Kartini alone—that would hardly reach me from Holland, and as for writing
mejuffrouw, or something of that kind, I have no right to it; I am only a
Javanese.
Now, for the present, you know enough about me—is it not so? Another
time I shall tell you of our Indian life.
If there is any light that you would like thrown upon any of our Indian
affairs, please ask me. I am ready to tell you all that I know about my
country and my people.
[1] Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.

[2] Queen Wilhelmina.

II
18 of August, 1899.[1]
Sincere thanks for your long letter, your cordial words warmed my heart.
Shall I not disappoint you upon a closer acquaintance? I have already told
you that I am very ignorant, that I know nothing. Compared to you I feel
myself sink into nothingness.
You are well informed about the Javanese titles. Before you mentioned it, I
had never given the matter a thought, that I am, as you say, "highly born."
Am I a princess? No more than you yourself are one. The last prince of our
house, from whom I am directly descended in the male line, was, I believe,
twenty-five generations back; but Mamma is closely related to the princely
house of Medeira; her great-grandfather was a reigning prince, and her
grandmother a princess. But we do not give a two-pence for all that. To my
mind there are only two kinds of aristocracy, the aristocracy of the mind,
and the aristocracy of the soul—of those who are noble in spirit. I think
there is nothing more commonplace than those people who allow
themselves to depend upon their so called "high birth." What worth is there
in simply being a count or baron? I cannot see it with my little
understanding.

Adel and Edel,[2] twin words with almost the same sound and which should
have the same meaning. Poor twins! How cruel life has been to you—it has
ruthlessly torn you asunder and holds you now so far apart. Once noble,
meant what the word signifies. Yes, then indeed it would have been an
honour to be "highly born." But now?—
I remember how embarrassed we were last year, when the ladies of the
Exposition for Woman's Work called us the "Princesses of Java."
In Holland they seem to think that everything which comes out of India
which is not a "baboe" or a "spada" must be a prince or a princess.
Europeans here in India seldom call us "Raden Adjeng," they address us
usually as "Freule."[3] I despair of its ever being different. I do not know

how many times I have said that we were not "Freules" and still less
princesses, but they have grown accustomed to the glamour and still
obstinately call us "Freule."
Not long ago a European who had heard much of us, came here and asked
our parents to be allowed the privilege of making the acquaintance of the
"princesses"; we were brought out and shown to him as though we had been
dolls; how stupid we felt!
"Regent," said he to our father, but quite distinctly before us—there was
much disappointment in his voice—"at the word—princess, I thought of
glittering garments, fantastic Oriental splendour, and your daughters look so
simple."
We could hardly suppress a smile when we heard him. Good Heavens! In
his innocence he had paid us the greatest possible compliment; you do not
know what a pleasure it was to us to find that our clothes were simple; we
had so often taken pains to put on nothing that would look conspicuous or
bizarre.
Dear Stella, I am heartily glad that I seem to you like your Dutch friends,
and that you find me congenial.
I have always been an enemy of formality. I am happy only when I can
throw the burden of Javanese etiquette from my shoulders. The ceremonies,
the little rules, that are instilled into our people are an abomination to me.
You could hardly imagine how heavily the burden of etiquette presses upon
a Javanese aristocratic household. But in our household, we do not take all
the formalities so literally.
We often dispense with ceremony and speak our own sentiments freely.
Javanese etiquette is both silly and terrible. Europeans who live years in
India, and who come in close contact with our native dignitaries, cannot at
all understand it unless they have made a special study of it.
In order to give you a faint idea of the oppressiveness of our etiquette, I
shall mention a few examples. A younger brother or sister of mine may not
pass me without bowing down to the ground and creeping upon hands and
knees. If a little sister is sitting on a chair, she must instantly slip to the
ground and remain with head bowed until I have passed from her sight. If a

younger brother or sister wishes to speak to me, it must only be in high
Javanese;[4] and after each sentence that comes from their lips, they must
make a sembah; that is, to put both hands together, and bring the thumbs
under the nose.
If my brothers and sisters speak to other people about me, they must always
use high Javanese in every sentence concerning me, my clothes, my seat at
the table, my hands and my feet, and everything that is mine. They are
forbidden to touch my honourable head without my high permission, and
they may not do it even then without first making a sembah.
If food stands on the table, they must not touch the tiniest morsel till it has
pleased me to partake of that which I would (as much as I desire). Should
you speak against your superiors, do it softly, so that only those who are
near may hear. Oh, yes; one even trembles by rule in a noble Javanese
household. When a young lady laughs, she must not open her mouth. (For
Heaven's sake! I hear you exclaim). Yes, dear Stella, you shall hear stranger
things than these, if you wish to know everything about us Javanese.
If a girl runs, she must do it decorously, with little mincing steps and oh, so
slowly, like a snail. To run just a little fast is to be a hoyden.
Toward my older brothers and sisters I show every respect, and observe all
forms scrupulously. I do not wish to deny the good right of any one, but the
younger ones, beginning with me, are doing away with all ceremony.
Freedom, equality, and fraternity! For my little brothers and sisters, toward
me, and toward each other, are like free, equal comrades. Between us, there
is no stiffness—there is only friendship and hearty affection. The sisters say
"thee" and "thou" to me, and we speak the same language. At first people
smiled in amazement at the free, untrammeled relationship between us
brothers and sisters of unequal ages. We were called children without any
bringing up, and I was a "koeda koree"[5] because I seldom walked sedately
but went skipping along. And they were further horrified because I often
laughed aloud! and allowed my teeth to show. But now that they see how
affectionate and sweet the relationship is between us, and that only the
burdensome etiquette has taken flight before our freedom, they admire the
harmonious union which binds us so closely together.

Thank you, dear Stella, for your charming compliment: I am as pleased as a
child. There is no danger of spoiling me by praise, or I should long ago
have been spoiled to death, both at home and by my friends and
acquaintances.
I thank you so much for the friendly thoughts which you have for us
Javanese. From you I did not expect anything else, but knew that you would
have the same feeling for all people, white or brown. From those who are
truly civilized and enlightened we have never experienced anything but
kindness. If a Javanese is ever so stupid, unlettered, uncivilized, the power
which governs him should see in him a fellow man, whom God has created
too; one who has a heart in his body, and a soul full of sensitive feeling,
although his countenance may remain immovable, and not a glance betray
his inward emotion.
At home, we speak Javanese with one another; Dutch only with Hollanders,
although now and then we use a little Dutch expression which has a shade
of meaning that cannot be translated, often it is to express some little
humorous point.
[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.
[2] As a noble deed.
[3] In Holland honourary title given to the daughter of a nobleman.
[4] Javanese is not one language but several, there is one language for the
aristocracy and another for the vulgar. A nobleman addresses an inferior in the
language of the common people Ngoko (2nd o: with ring above, M.D.), but he is
answered in high Javanese known as Krama. Between the two there is a middle
speech, Madja, used in familiar intercourse between friends and equals besides
Krama-inggil or court speech. There is also the classical language Kawi nearly
allied to Sanskrit, in which the ancient literature of Java is written.
[5] Wild colt.

III
November 6, 1899.[1]
Certainly, Stella, I cannot thank my parents enough for the free bringing up
which they have given me. I had rather have my whole life one of strife and
sorrow than be without the knowledge which I owe to my European
education. I know that many, many difficulties await me, but I am not afraid
of the future. I cannot remain content in my old condition; yet to further the
new progress I can do nothing: a dozen strong chains bind me fast to my
world. What will be the outcome? All my European friends ask themselves
this question. Did I know myself, dear people, I should tell you with
pleasure. All can see that the situation is critical for us; and then they say
that it was a mistake for my father to give me the little education which I
have had. No! No! Not on my dearest father lies the blame. No, and again
no! Father could not foresee that the same bringing up which he gave to all
of his children would have had such an effect upon one of them. Many
other regents had given to their families the same advantages that we have
had, and it has never resulted in anything but in native young ladies with
European manners, who speak Dutch.
There is no help for it. Some day or other it will come to pass, must come to
pass, that I shall have to follow an unknown bridegroom. Love is a will o'
the wisp in our Javanese world! How can a man and woman love each other
when they see each other for the first time in their lives after they are
already fast bound in the chains of wedlock?
I shall never, never fall in love. To love, there must first be respect,
according to my thinking; and I can have no respect for the Javanese young
man. How can I respect one who is married and a father, and who, when he
has had enough of the mother of his children, brings another woman into
his house, and is, according to the Mohammedan law, legally married to
her? And who does not do this? And why not? It is no sin, and still less a
scandal. The Mohammedan law allows a man to have four wives at the
same time. And though it be a thousand times over no sin according to the

Mohammedan law and doctrine, I shall for ever call it a sin. I call all things
sin which bring misery to a fellow creature. Sin is to cause pain to another,
whether man or beast. And can you imagine what hell-pain a woman must
suffer when her husband comes home with another—a rival—whom she
must recognize as his legal wife? He can torture her to death, mistreat her as
he will; if he does not choose to give her back her freedom, then she can
whistle to the moon for her rights. Everything for the man, and nothing for
the woman, is our law and custom.
Do you understand now the deep aversion I have for marriage? I would do
the humblest work, thankfully and joyfully, if by it I could be independent.
But I can do nothing, less than nothing, on account of Father's position
among our people. If I choose to work, it would have to be at something
fitting! It is only work for pleasure which would not be a disgrace to my
noble and highly placed family—a chain of regents from Java's eastern
coast to the middle. Why did God give us talents and not the opportunity to
make use of them? My two sisters have studied drawing and painting, and
without any instruction, have made fair progress, according to those who
know. They would gladly go on with their studies. But here in Java, there is
no opportunity, and we cannot go to Europe. To go there we should have to
have the consent of his Excellency, the Minister of Finance, and that we
have not. We must depend entirely upon ourselves, if we wish to go
forward.
O Stella, do you know what it is to long for something intensely and yet to
feel powerless to obtain it? Could Father have done so, I do not doubt he
would have sent us without hesitation to your cold and distant land.
I draw and paint too, but take much more pleasure in the pen than in the
pencil. Do you understand now why I am so anxious to obtain the mastery
of your beautiful language? Nay, do not contradict me. I construct it after a
fashion, but I understand my limitations all too well. If I could learn the
Dutch language thoroughly, my future would be assured. A rich field of
labour would then lie open to me, and I should be a true child of humanity.
For, you see I, as a born Javanese, know all about the Indian world. A
European, no matter how long he may have lived in Java and studied
existing conditions, can still know nothing of the inner native life. Much

that is obscure now and a riddle to Europeans, I could make clear with a
few words.
I feel my powerlessness all too well, Stella. You would burst out laughing if
you could look over my shoulder and read this little sheet of paper. What a
crazy idea of mine, is it not? That I who know nothing, have learned
nothing, should wish to venture upon a literary career? Still though every
one else should laugh at me, I know that you will not—I will not think that
for a moment. It is indeed a desperate undertaking, but "he who does not
dare, does not win," is my motto. Forward! Dare mightily and with strength.
Three-fourths of the world belongs to the strong.
You ask me how I came to be placed between four thick walls. You
certainly thought of a cell or something of that kind. No, Stella, my prison
was a large house, with grounds around it. But around those grounds there
was a high wall and that held me a prisoner. Never mind how splendid a
house and garden may be if one may never go beyond them, it is stifling. I
remember how often in dumb despair, I would press my body against the
fast closed gate and the cold stones. Whatever direction I took, at the end of
every walk there was always a stone wall, or a locked door.
Of late Mevrouw Ovink often says to me, "Child, Child, have we done well
to let you come forth from the high walls of the kaboepaten?[2] Would it not
have been better if we had let you remain there? What will come of it now?
What of the future?"
And when she sees us drawing and painting she cries full of distress: "Dear
children, is there nothing else for you but this?" No, the only fortunate
thing, the best thing that could have happened to us, is that we three were
thrust out into the light. Luckily, I am optimistic by nature, and do not
quickly let my head hang. If I cannot become what I so much desire to be,
then I would rather be something, if only a kitchen-maid. You will think
now, that I am a "genius" in cooking. My family and friends need not worry
about my future, do you not agree with me? For a good kitchen-maid is
always in demand, and can always get along.
The official salaries in Holland seem small compared with those in India.
Yet they are always complaining here, about the small salaries. In India too
one is entitled to a pension after twenty years' service, and the clergy after

only ten years. India is an El Dorado for the officials, and yet many
Hollanders speak of it as a "horrible Ape-land." I get so infernally mad
when I hear them speak of "Horrible India." They forget all too often that
this "horrible Ape-land" fills many empty pockets with gold.
A change will come in our whole native world—the turning point is fore-
ordained; it is coming. But when will it be? That is the great question. We
cannot hasten the hour of revolution. For it is only we who have rebellious
thoughts in this wilderness, this dark distant land, beyond which there is no
land. My friends here say that we shall act wisely if we do nothing but sleep
for a hundred years. When we awakened, Java would be more as we would
have her.
"Work among the people of India" I know. Mevrouw Zuylen-Tromp sent
Father the book, hoping to arouse his interest. But he would rather interest
himself in a book about the native woman; I had thought of that myself. I
have much to tell about Javanese women, but I am still too young, and have
had so little, so pitifully little, experience with life. The cause for which I
would speak is to me too earnest and too sacred to be approached lightly. I
cannot write now as I wish, but I know that when I have suffered more it
will be different. After a few years I shall have had a more comprehending
insight into much that I would know and many thoughts that now run darkly
through my brain will have grown clear.
I cannot tell you anything of the Mohammedan law, Stella. Its followers are
forbidden to speak of it with those of another faith. And, in truth, I am a
Mohammedan only because my ancestors were. How can I love a doctrine
which I do not know—may never know? The Koran is too holy to be
translated into any language whatever. Here no one speaks Arabic. It is
customary to read from the Koran; but what is read no one understands! To
me it is a silly thing to be obliged to read something without being able to
understand it. It is as though I were compelled to read an English book, and
the whole thing should go through my head without my being able to
comprehend the meaning of a single word. If I wished to know and
understand our religion, I should have to go to Arabia to learn the language.
Nevertheless, one can be good without being pious. Is not that true, Stella?

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

I have read "Max Havelaar,"[3] though I do not know "Wijs mij de plaats
waar ik gezaaid heb!"[4] I shall look for it for I think much, very much, of
Multatuli.
I will tell you another time of the position of the people, and of the ruling
classes among us. I have written too much already, and that is a subject
which demands no small space.
What do we speak at home? What a question, Stella, dear. Naturally, our
language is Javanese. We speak Malayish with strange people who are
Easterners, either Malays, Moors, Arabs, or Chinese, and Dutch with
Europeans.
O Stella, how I laughed when I read your question: "Would your parents
disapprove if you should embrace them heartily?" Why, I have yet to give
my parents, or my brothers and sisters, the first kiss![5] Kissing is not
customary among the Javanese. Only children of from one to three, four,
five, or six are kissed. We never kiss one another. You are astonished at
that! But it is true. Only our young Holland friends kiss us, and we kiss
them back; that has only been recently.

At first we loved to have them kiss us, but never kissed them in return. We
have only learned to kiss since we have been such friends with Mevrouw
Ovink. When she would embrace us, she would ask us to kiss her. At first
we found it queer, and acquitted ourselves awkwardly. Does this seem
strange to you? No matter how much I should love one of my Dutch
friends, it would never come into my head to kiss her without being asked.
You ask why? Because I do not know whether she would like it. It is
pleasant for us to press a soft white cheek with our lips, but whether the
possessor of that pretty cheek also finds it pleasant to feel a dark face
against hers, is another question. We had rather let people think us heartless,
for of our own accord we would never embrace.
If as you say I am in no way behind many Dutch girls, it is principally the
work of Mevrouw Ovink, who used to talk to us as though we were her own
sisters. Intercourse with this cultured, well-bred Dutch lady had a great
influence upon the little brown girls. And now Moesje knows very well that
though time and distance separate them, the hearts of her daughters will
always belong to her. Father had promised us—in reality, Mevrouw Ovink
made him give his word of honour—to let us go to Djombang. Mijnheer
Ovink will take us there by and by. We love them so much, have so much
love for our "Father" and "Mother." We miss them sadly. I cannot even now
realize that they are actually gone from us. There was so little restraint
between us. We lived all the time so cordially together.
[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.
[2] A regent's palace.
[3] Max Havelaar of de Koffieveilingen der Nederlandsche
Handelsmaatschnappij, by E.D. Dekker (Multatuli), published first in
Amsterdam in 1860.
[4] "Show me the place where I have sown."
[5] Havelock Ellis says that the kiss is unknown throughout Eastern Asia. In
Japan, as in Java, mothers kiss their babies; but Chinese mothers sometimes
frighten their children by threatening to give them the white man's kiss. See also
Coltman, the Chinese, p. 90, p. 99.

IV
November 1899.[1]
O dearest, dearest Mevrouwtje, what a delightful Sunday we had yesterday!
Father went out with my little brother, and after awhile they came back
home. Brother, with great excitement, ran to me and said, "O sister, there is
a man-of-war in the harbour; all the streets are filled with sailors, and two
of them have come home with us, they are with Father now."
At the word "warship," we sprang up as though we had been shot, and
before brother had finished speaking, we flew to our room to make ready.
We saw two gentlemen dressed in white, come hesitating—through the
grounds. After a little while, we saw them sitting with Pa in the middle
gallery. Later, a boy came to us, saying that we must go to Father, which we
did with the greatest willingness. One, two, three, and we had slipped on
our best kabaais,[2] and a second later we were sitting in rocking-chairs
talking to two officers from the Edie. I do not know how it came about, but
we were immediately at our ease and spoke to the gentlemen as though we
had known them for years. But how did these people happen to come to
kaboepaten? I will explain that to you. Papa went, as I have said, for a little
drive; he met five gentlemen walking, three of them turned another way, but
these two had followed Papa's carriage in to the kaboepaten. They thought
(the gentlemen were new to Java) that the way the carriage took was a
public road, and our house a fortress or something of the kind.
Papa sent a servant to ask the gentlemen if they wished to see him. They
were embarrassed, naturally, because they had made such a mistake and
followed some one to his own house. What would they do now? They did
not find it pleasant by any means, because they did not understand our
language, and spoke only very bad, broken Malayish. Papa put an end to
this awkward situation by going to meet them himself, and addressing them
in Dutch. Embarrassment was at an end. They would come with pleasure
into the house.

It turned out that one of them was a relative of some one whom Papa knew
well. I do not remember to have ever felt so much at my ease with an utter
stranger. I did not think once of the fact that I had never seen these people
before, and had not known of their existence five minutes ago. It is strange
how with sailors one feels at home right away.
Our hearts have always been set upon the sea; everything that concerns it
interests us. You know well what a delight it is to us to be taken out even in
a little row boat. We love the sea; you remember the time when I lay half-
dead in the bow of the opium skiff, even then I found it pleasant to be upon
such a bed? If I were a boy, I should not think twice, but would become a
sailor at once.
Imagine to yourself Father saying to the gentlemen, "My daughters would
be so pleased if they could be permitted to go on board."
Father knows everything that goes on in our hearts. Father does not tell us
so, yet I am certain of it. Now and then Papa tells one or the other of us
precisely what we have been thinking; something that we had kept to
ourselves and never told to any one. It is without doubt, because Father
loves us so much, and we so love him. Every now and then he discovers
something, and lays it bare, that had been in the bottom of my heart, and of
which I had thought no one except myself had the slightest idea. Does not
that show true kinship of soul?
If I were more superstitious, I should certainly think that Papa could read
thoughts.
But I am telling you now of the pleasant Sunday morning, and not of the
secret telephone-cable that runs from our hearts to that of our dearest
Father.
The officers regretted so much that the Edie would not remain longer in our
harbour. It would have been such a pleasure to them to have had us on
board. The Edie must go to look for reefs on Karimoen Djawa, though the
commander thought Japara interesting. Both gentlemen were going to do
everything in their power to persuade the Commandant to come back; for if
the Edie set out from Soerabaja on Monday, either Saturday or Sunday she
could be back at Japara. If fortune should bring the Edie here on Saturday,

then they will let us know of their presence by letting loose their fire-
mouths (cannon). I have no idea that they will, but still it would be above
all things pleasant if the boat should come again.
I told the gentlemen that if they passed Japara again, they must break a
screw or something, near our coast, so that the ship would be obliged to lay
up in our harbour for repairs.
When the officers had gone, and we were back in our room, we thought it
had been a dream. And truly it was as though we had dreamed. So suddenly,
so unexpectedly, had they appeared to us, and again as suddenly had they
vanished. A very pleasant happening—do you not think so too? I still have
to laugh whenever I think of that funny adventure.
O little Mother, dearest Mevrouwtje, I wish that you were back with us.
Your daughters miss you so much. We long for the pleasant days that we
spent with you to come again: the splendid times that we used to have in
your dear little sitting-room, where you would read to us from great books,
and where we spoke of so much, the memory of which shall always remain
with us. I miss the intimate talks with you, when I used to tell my dear little
mother all the rebellious thoughts that came into my head, and laid bare the
feelings of my restless heart. When I was in a rebellious mood, I had but to
see the love light in your face, and I was again the happy, careless child,
that, in overflowing good spirits, could sing: "Whatever Heaven to me shall
send, I'll set my shoulders bravely under."
Mevrouwtje, you gave us too much care; spoiled us too much. Now we do
nothing but wish for those happy days to come back. And although we long
for you, yet we hope that the journey to Djombang will be put off as long as
possible. Why? We know—we feel, that at Djombang, we shall see each
other for the last time. Seeing you again will mean farewell for good. You
will not come to Japara again, and we shall never be able to go to you. For
that reason, let the journey be put off as long as possible. It is splendid to
have a pleasure to look forward to; so we should like to prolong the feeling
of anticipation. Once more the joy of meeting again, and then—all the
prettiness will be over. No it will not be over even then, the memory will be
with us.

We shall still be happy as long as you think of us and love us. You know
very well, dear little Mother, that love is nothing but egoism. I think there is
nothing finer than to be able to call a happy smile to a loved mouth—to see
the sunshine break over another's face. Nothing is more splendid than to
have a pair of dear eyes look at one full of love and happiness; then it is that
one feels guilty for that very joy. How pleasant that Kokki also remembers
us.
[1] To Mevrouw M.C.E. Ovink-Soer.
[2] A Javanese woman's dress consists of a sarong which is draped to form a
skirt, and a kabaja, or jacket shaped garment. The kabaja is of Dutch origin and
its use is a concession to European ideas of modesty, as formerly the upper part
of the body was left bare.

V
12th January, 1900.[1]
To go to Europe! Till my last breath that shall always be my ideal. If I could
only make myself small enough to slip into an envelope then I would go
with this letter to you, Stella, and to my dearest best brother, and near—
Hush, not another word! It is not my fault, Stella, if now and then I write
nonsense. The gamelan[2] in the pendopo[3] could speak to you better than I.
Now it is playing a lovely air. It is like no other song—no melody, each
note is so soft, so tender, so vaguely thrilling, so changing—but ah! how
compelling, how bitterly beautiful: that is no tinkling of glass, of copper, of
wood; it is the voices of men's souls that speak to me; now they are
complaining, now sighing, and now merrily laughing. And my soul soars
with the murmuring pure silver tones on high, on high, to the isles of blue
light, to the fleecy clouds, and towards the shining stars—deep low tones
are rising now and the music leads me through dark dales, down steep
ravines, through sombre woods on into dense wildernesses, and my soul
shivers and trembles within me with anguish and pain and sorrow.
I have heard "Ginonding" a dozen times, still now that the gamelan is silent
I cannot recall a single note, everything is driven from my memory, the sad
and lovely air is gone that made me so inexpressibly happy, and so deeply
melancholy at the same time. I can never hear "Ginonding" without deep
emotion, the first chords of the splendid prelude, and I am lost. Sometimes I
do not wish to listen, it is too sorrowful, yet I must hearken to the
murmuring voices, which tell me of the past, and of the future. The breath
of its thrilling silver strains blows away the veil which covers the secrets of
what is to be, and clear as though it were today visions of the future rise to
my mind. A shivering goes through me, for I see dark sombre figures. I try
to close my eyes, but they remain wide open, and at my feet there yawns a
dizzy abyss. But I look up, and a blue Heaven arches above me, and golden
sun-beams play with the fleecy white clouds, and in my heart it is again
light.

There! Have I not convinced you what a foolish, mad creature I am? What
silly thoughts, but we will not excuse ourselves to each other, Stella.
Enough of that! I will now try to talk sensibly like a rational human being.
My sunny land which you so long to see, has been of late anything but
sunny. There have been terrible rainstorms every day, and Sunday the
Japara river rose from its banks, villages were flooded, and even the city
itself was inundated by the rushing waters.
Ever since morning it has rained in torrents, and the wind has shaken our
house frightfully. Outside several trees have blown down, the thick
branches were broken off as though they had been match stems, and
nothing remains now of the splendid koolblanda trees, but two cold, bare
trunks. How terribly the kampongs around must have suffered, whole roofs
have been torn from the houses. Today Papa has gone out on a tour of
inspection, and to succour an outlying district where many villages are
under water. Papa is sore pressed in these days. First it was storm, then an
earthquake, now again storm. A colossal randoe tree was blown across a
public highway, striking two passersby; they were taken from under it
ground to pieces. A whole day, and a whole night we listened to the raging
and the roaring of the wind. Poor Klein Scheveningen, the storm has
wrought frightful havoc there. The way to the bath house is entirely covered
with seething water, and the beach has disappeared, the insatiable sea has
covered it. This afternoon, if it is not raining hard, I shall ask Father's
permission to go and see it.
A week ago we were on Klein Scheveningen, we stood on a great rock to
watch the surging of the waves. We were so intent upon the imposing
spectacle that we did not see how the onrushing waters were covering our
rock. Not until the children on the shore called to us affrighted did we
realize that we were surrounded by a raging surf. We waded back to the
children through water up to our knees.

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

I thank God that I can answer "No" to your question as to whether the
condition of our people is as sad as Multatuli has described it. No, the
history of Saïdjah[5] and Adinda belongs to the past. There may be hunger
sometimes among the people, but that is not the fault of their rulers. The
rulers cannot be held responsible for the long droughts when the "little
man" needs rain so much for his fields, nor can they be blamed for the
floods that the clouds send to destroy the harvest. And when the rice harvest
fails, whether it be through a plague of insects, or through floods, or
through the misfortunes which the long continued "East Wind"[6] brings,
then all the people who suffer from these calamities have their taxes
remitted by the Government, and in time of famine, money and food are
doled out to them. If the fields are over-run by a plague of mice, the
Government offers rewards for the destruction of the pest. If the "West
Wind," as now, causes the rising of the waters in the rivers, and the dikes
break, the rulers do all that is possible to mitigate the distress.
Last year a fishing village lay for a whole week under water; day and night
Father remained at the scene of the disaster. Out of special funds that were
at the disposal of the Government, the breaks in the dikes were restored for
some kilometers. But who was to give back to the people what the water
had taken away from them? And what of the fish in the rivers destroyed by
the floods?
Then you have Demak in my Uncle's jurisdiction; that country could never
be brought to a condition of prosperity, whatever one might do. From one
remote valley to the other the East Wind dries up the rivers, and then the
West Wind drowns the land with water. The Government has spent tons of
gold to give water to the land in the dry season, and also in building heavy
barriers against floods in the wet season, but so far without result. Splendid
canals have been dug, which have provided work for thousands, it is true,
but they appear to be of little practical value. During the East Winds the
land perishes with thirst, and during the West Winds everything floats upon
the water. The Government cares much for the well-being of the people of
Java, but alas it allows them to be burdened by heavy taxes, under the load
of which they can move but slowly.
No, Stella, the people are no longer wilfully plundered by their rulers. And
if this should happen but a single time, the guilty one would be deprived of

his office, be degraded. But an evil that does exist, is the taking of presents,
that even I think as wrong and shameful as the forcible taking of goods
belonging to the "little man" as in Max Havelaar. But perhaps I would not
judge this so harshly, if I considered the circumstances. At first the natives
thought that the offering of gifts to their superiors was a mark of respect—a
declaration of homage. The taking of presents is forbidden to the
magistrates by the government, but many native officials are so ill-paid that
it is a wonder how they can get along at all on their meagre salaries. A
district registrar who all day long writes his back crooked, earns at the end
of the month, the incredibly large sum of 25 florins. On that he and his
family must live, and pay house rent; he must dress himself neatly, and also
keep up his prestige over the lesser officials. Do not judge them harshly, but
rather pity these grown-up children, for that is what my fellow-countrymen
are for the most part. If a district writer is offered something, perhaps a
bunch of bananas, he may refuse it the first time, the second time he may
also refuse it, but the third time he accepts it reluctantly, and the fourth time
the present is taken without hesitation. What I am doing is no harm, he
thinks, I have never asked for it, and yet it was given me; I should be an
idiot to hesitate when it is the custom. The giving of presents is not only a
token of respect, but also a safeguard against some possible misfortune,
when the "little man" might need the protection of the one in authority. If he
should be called to account by the wedono[7] for some little fault or other,
then he can count upon the support of his friend, the district writer. The
magistrates are poorly paid. An assistant wedono of the second class earns
85 florins. Out of this he must pay a secretary (assistant wedonos are
furnished no secretaries by the Government, although they have as much
need of written work as wedonos, djaksas[8] and others). They must keep a
little carriage and a horse, and even a riding horse for journeys into the
country; they must buy a house, furniture, etc. They have the expense of
keeping up the house and, in addition, the entertainment of the Comptroller,
[9]
the Regent, and sometimes also the Assistant-Resident when they come
on tours of inspection (for the assistant wedono lives far from the capital).
On these occasions the gentlemen lodge in the passangrahan,[10] and to the
assistant wedono falls the high honour of setting the food before their noble
mouths. There must be cigars, ajer blanda,[11] wines, delicacies for the table,
and these, I assure you, are for an under district chief no inconsiderable

expense. It would not be meet to set before his honourable guests only the
things which he has at hand; so all these table luxuries must be sent for to
the city. It is not a law, but the host considers it his duty to set before the
grand gentlemen the best of what he has, and has not. In Father's
jurisdiction this does not occur, thank God. When Father goes upon a tour
of inspection and must stay several days he always takes his own provisions
with him. The Comptroller too does this, and also the Assistant-Resident,
and no native official is ruined by the single cup of tea which he offers
them.
If there is a murder or a robbery in the under district, the assistant wedono
must naturally clear up the matter; it is his duty. And to trace out the guilty
one he must go deep, very deep into his own purse. It has happened many
times that the native chiefs have pawned the ornaments of their wives and
children to obtain the money which was necessary before some dark deed
could be brought into the light. But will that money which is paid out in the
service of the Government be paid back by the Government? I wish indeed
that it were so. Several magistrates have been reduced to beggary in this
way. What, in Heaven's name, can the magistrates do, who cannot make
their salaries suffice, and have no parents or other relatives upon whom they
can fall back for support? And if the people come forward with gifts when
they see their wives and children running around in ragged clothes—Judge
them not harshly, Stella.
I know the trials of the native chiefs. I know the misery of the people, and
what is the Government going to do now? It is going to reorganize the
Inland administration. The native personnel will be reduced to the
advantage of the European magistrates. From this reduction there will be
saved annually an expenditure of 464,800 florins, and the European
magistrates will reap the benefit of this. It is true that there are some ill-paid
officials who will be bettered financially, and will become assistant
wedonas instead of Government clerks; but what does that signify in
comparison with the many important posts (it has not yet been
demonstrated that they are superfluous) that will be abolished.
There are all kinds of rumours about the Government regulations. The bill
for this re-organization has passed both chambers of the Volks
Vertegenwoordigers, and on July 1st. of next year it will go into effect.

Nearly all of the residents have protested, but his excellency the Governor
General wishes it, so in spite of all protests, the re-organization will
proceed. I hope that the Government will eat no bitter fruit as a result.
And now about the people, about the inhabitants of Java in general. The
Javanese are grown-up children. What has the Government done to further
their development? For the noble sons of the country, there are, so called,
High Schools, Normal schools, and the Doktor-djawa[12] School; and for
the people, there are various common schools—one in each district; though
the Government has divided these latter institutions into two classes. The
first class, composed of schools which are situated in the provincial
capitals, are conducted just as they were before the division, but in the
schools of the second class, the children learn only Javanese, reading,
writing and a little reckoning. No Malay is taught as formerly, why, it is not
made clear. The Government believes, to my thinking, that if the people
were educated, they would no longer be willing to work the land.
Father sent a note to the Government on the subject of education. O Stella, I
wish that you could read it. You must know that many of the native rulers
rejoice at the action of the Government. The Javanese nobles are in favour
with the Government here and in the Motherland, and everything possible is
done to help them, and to make them blossom to perfection.
The aristocracy sees with sad eyes how sons of the people are educated, and
often even elevated to their ranks by the government because of knowledge,
ability and industry. Sons of the people go to European schools and
compare favourably in every respect, with the high and honourable sons of
the noble. The nobles wish to have rights for themselves alone; they alone
wish to have authority and to make western civilization and enlightenment
their own. And the Government helps and supports them in this; for it is to
its own advantage to do so. As early as 1895 there was a decree, that
without the special permission of his Excellency the Governor General no
native child (from six to seven years old) would be admitted to the free
grammar school for Europeans, that could not speak Dutch. How can a
native child of six or seven years learn Dutch? He would have had to have a
Dutch governess, and then before he is able to learn the Netherland
language, the child must first know his own language, and necessarily know
how to read and write. It is only regents who do not have to ask permission

for their families to go to the European schools: most of the native chiefs
are afraid of receiving a "No" in answer to their request and therefore do
nothing. Is it presumptuous of Father to call attention to the fact that
African and Ambonese children may go directly to the European schools,
without understanding a word of Dutch? Stella, I remember well from my
own school days that many European children went to school who knew as
little Dutch as I, and I hardly knew any.

Father says in his note, that the government cannot set the rice[13] upon the
table for every Javanese, and see that he partakes of it. But it can clear the
board, where the food is to be spread, and that food is education. When the
Government provides a means of education for the people, it is as though it
placed torches in their hands which enabled them to find the good road that
leads to the place where the rice is served.
I will not quote any further, Stella; perhaps another time I can send you the
whole note. From it you will learn something of the present condition of the
people. Father wishes to do everything that he can to help the people and
needless to say, I am on his side.
Father is very proud of his ancient noble race, but right is right, and justice
is justice. We wish to equal the Europeans in education and enlightenment,
and the rights which we demand for ourselves, we must also give to others.
This putting of stumbling blocks in the way of the education of the people,
may well be compared to the acts of the Tsar, who while he is preaching
peace to the world, tramples under foot the good right of his own subjects.
Measure with two measures, no! The Europeans are troubled by many traits
in the Javanese, by their indifference and lack of initiative. Very well,
Netherlander, if you are troubled so much by these things why do you not
do something to remedy the cause? Why is it that you do not stretch forth a
single finger to help your brown brother? Draw back the thick veil from his
understanding, open his eyes, you will see that there is in him something
else besides an inclination for mischief, which springs principally from
stupidity and ignorance. I should not have to seek far for examples of this;
nor would you, Stella. Here before you lie the innermost thoughts of one
who belongs to that despised brown race. They are not able to judge us, and
the things that we do, and leave undone. Do they know us?

No, even as little as we know them.
If you are interested in this subject, get the October number of Neerlandia.
It contains an address delivered by my brother in the Dutch language at the
literary congress at Ghent. Professor Kern took him there and asked him to
speak. The sentiments to which he gives utterance are also mine; they are
ours.

"Has your father much power?"[14] you ask. What is power? Father has
great influence, but the Governor alone has power. My brother pleaded for
the use of the Dutch language officially. Read what he says, Stella, if not for
your own satisfaction, then because I wish it.
The Hollanders laugh and make fun of our stupidity, but if we strive for
enlightenment, then they assume a defiant attitude toward us. What have I
not suffered as a child at school through the ill will of the teachers and of
many of my fellow pupils? Not all of the teachers and pupils hated us.
Many loved us quite as much as the other children. But it was hard for the
teachers to give a native the highest mark, never mind how well it may have
been deserved.
I shall relate to you the history of a gifted and educated Javanese. The boy
had passed his examinations, and was number one in one of the three
principal high schools of Java. Both at Semarang, where he went to school,
and at Batavia, where he stood his examinations, the doors of the best
houses were open to the amiable school-boy, with his agreeable and
cultivated manners and great modesty.
Every one spoke Dutch to him, and he could express himself in that
language with distinction. Fresh from this environment, he went back to the
house of his parents. He thought it would be proper to pay his respects to
the authorities of the place and he found himself in the presence of the
Resident who had heard of him, and here it was that my friend made a
mistake. He dared to address the great man in Dutch.
The following morning notice of an appointment as clerk to a comptroller
in the mountains was sent to him. There the young man must remain to
think over his "misdeeds" and forget all that he had learned at the schools.
After some years a new comptroller or possibly assistant comptroller came;

then the measure of his misfortunes was made to overflow. The new chief
was a former school-fellow, one who had never shone through his abilities.
The young man who had led his classes in everything must now creep upon
the ground before the one-time dunce, and speak always high Javanese to
him, while he himself was answered in bad Malay. Can you understand the
misery of a proud and independent spirit so humbled? And how much
strength of character it must have taken to endure that petty and annoying
oppression?
But at last he could stand it no longer, he betook himself to Batavia and
asked his excellency the Governor General for an audience; it was granted
him. The result was that he was sent to Preanger, with a commission to
make a study of the rice culture there. He made himself of service through
the translation of a pamphlet on the cultivation of water crops from Dutch
into Javanese and Sundanese. The government presented him in
acknowledgement with several hundred guilders. In the comptroller's school
at Batavia, a teacher's place was vacant—a teacher of the Javanese language
be it understood—and his friends (among the Javanese) did all in their
power to secure this position for him, but without result. It was an absurd
idea for a Native to have European pupils who later might become ruling
government officials, Perish the thought! I should like to ask who could
teach Javanese better than a born Javanese?
The young man went back to his dwelling place; in the meantime another
resident had come, and the talented son of the brown race might at last
become an assistant wedono. Not for nothing had he been banished for
years to that distant place. He had learned wisdom there; namely, that one
cannot serve a European official better than by creeping in the dust before
him, and by never speaking a single word of Dutch in his presence. Others
have now come into power, and lately when the position of translator of the
Javanese language became vacant it was offered to our friend (truly
opportunely) now that he does not stand in any one's way!
Stella, I know an Assistant Resident, who speaks Malay with a Regent,
although he knows that the latter speaks good Dutch. Every one else
converses confidentially with this native ruler but the Assistant Resident—
never.

My brothers speak in high Javanese to their superiors, who answer them in
Dutch or in Malay. Those who speak Dutch to them are our personal
friends; several of whom have asked my brothers to speak to them in the
Dutch language, but they prefer not to do it, and Father also never does. The
boys and Father know all too well why they must hold to the general usage.
There is too much idle talk about the word "prestige," through the
imaginary dignity of the under officials. I do not bother about prestige. I am
only amused at the manner in which they preserve their prestige over us
Javanese.
Sometimes I cannot suppress a smile. It is distinctly diverting to see the
great men try to inspire us with awe. I had to bite my lips to keep from
laughing outright when I was on a journey not long ago, and saw an
Assistant Resident go from his office to his house under the shade of a gold
umbrella, which a servant held spread above his noble head. It was such a
ridiculous spectacle! Heavens! if he only knew how the humble crowds
who respectfully retreated to one side before the glittering sunshade,
immediately his back was turned, burst out laughing.
There are many, yes very many Government officials, who allow the native
rulers to kiss their feet, and their knees. Kissing the foot is the highest token
of respect that we Javanese can show to our parents, or elderly blood
relatives, and to our own rulers. We do not find it pleasant to do this for
strangers; no, the European makes himself ridiculous in our eyes whenever
he demands from us those tokens of respect to which our own rulers alone
have the right.
It is a matter of indifference when Residents and Assistant Residents allow
themselves to be called "Kandjeng," but when overseers, railroad engineers
(and perhaps tomorrow, station-masters too) allow themselves to be thus
addressed by their servants, it is absurdly funny. Do these people really
know what Kandjeng means?
It is a title that the natives give to their hereditary rulers. I used to think that
it was only natural for the stupid Javanese to love all this flim-flam, but
now I see that the civilized, enlightened Westerner is not averse to it, that he
is daft about it.

I never allow women older than I to show all the prescribed ceremonies to
me, even though I know they would gladly, for though I am so young, I am
a scion of what they consider an ancient, noble and honoured house; for
which in the past, they have poured out both blood and gold in large
measure. It is strange how attached inferiors are to those above them. But to
me, it goes against the grain when people older than I creep in the dust
before me.
With heavy hearts, many Europeans here see how the Javanese, whom they
regard as their inferiors, are slowly awakening, and at every turn a brown
man comes up, who shows that he has just as good brains in his head, and a
just as good heart in his body, as the white man.
But we are going forward, and they cannot hold back the current of time. I
love the Hollanders very, very much, and I am grateful for everything that
we have gained through them. Many of them are among our best friends,
but there are also others who dislike us, for no other reason than we are
bold enough to emulate them in education and culture.
In many subtle ways they make us feel their dislike. "I am a European, you
are a Javanese," they seem to say, or "I am the master, you the governed."
Not once, but many times, they speak to us in broken Malay; although they
know very well that we understand the Dutch language. It would be a
matter of indifference to me in what language they addressed us, if the tone
were only polite. Not long ago, a Raden Ajoe was talking to a gentleman,
and impulsively she said, "Sir, excuse me, but may I make a friendly
request, please, speak to me in your own language. I understand and speak
Malay very well, but alas, only high Malay. I do not understand this passer-
Malay." How our gentleman hung his head!
Why do many Hollanders find it unpleasant to converse with us in their
own language? Oh yes, now I understand; Dutch is too beautiful to be
spoken by a brown mouth.

A few days ago we paid a visit to Totokkers.[15] Their domestics were old
servants of ours, and we knew that they could speak and understand Dutch
very well. I told the host this, and what answer did I receive from my
gentleman? "No, they must not speak Dutch." "No, why?" I asked.
"Because natives ought not to know Dutch." I looked at him in amazement,

and a satirical smile quivered at the corners of my mouth. The gentleman
grew fiery red, mumbled something into his beard, and discovered
something interesting in his boots, at least he devoted all of his attention to
them.
Still another little story; it happened in the Preanger. It was in the early
evening and the Regent of X was receiving visitors in his kaboepaten. There
was an intimate friend of the Resident of the department; afterwards a little
assistant-comptroller came in and joined the company. The son of the
house, a school-boy at home on his vacation, ran into the pendopo. As soon
as he saw that his father was not alone, he started to turn back, but the
Resident had seen him and called him. His Excellency greeted the youth
cordially and had a long and friendly talk with him. When the conversation
with his Excellency was over, he went up to the young official and made a
polite bow. The little gentleman saw no necessity for answering the
courteous greeting with more than barely noticeable nod of the head, and
while his cold eyes took in the boy disdainfully from head to foot, he said
coolly the little word "tabee" (a Malay greeting). The young man turned
pale, his lips trembled; two fists were clenched.
Afterwards he said to the intimate friend who had been present, "Sir, I like
the Hollanders very much; they are among my best friends, but I shall never
be able to forget the "tabee" of that Assistant; it cut me to the soul."
Oh, Stella, I have had glimpses into all sorts and conditions of Indian
society; involuntarily I see behind the curtain of the official world. There
are abysses so deep, that the very thought of them makes me dizzy. O God,
why is the world still so full of evil deeds—of horror and of sadness? There
are residents and assistant residents compared to whom Slijmering in Max
Havelaar is a saint; but I do not wish to turn my letter into a scandal
chronicle.
Oh, now I understand why they are opposed to the education of the
Javanese. When the Javanese becomes educated then he will no longer say
amen to everything that is suggested to him by his superiors.
In the last few days, articles written by natives have been published in the
"Locomotief," the foremost paper of India. In these articles they lay bare the
opinions, which have secretly been held for years about, not all, but by far

the greater number of Indian officials. Not only the highest in the land, but
also the most humble are allowing their voices to be heard. The paper calls
this a good sign of the times, and rejoices. What the European officials in
general think I do not know; a comptroller, who is one of the organizers of
the Inland administration, says that good will come of it, not only to the
Europeans, but also to the native rulers. He is pleading for a trained corps of
native officials. The proposition will come before both chambers of the
States General soon. It is also urged that the Dutch language be used
officially in business between European and native chiefs. Splendid! then
my brother does not stand alone. In July, the question of the education of
women will come up too. The Javanese are emancipating themselves.
Still this is only a beginning, and it is splendid that men of influence and
ability are supporting our cause. The strife will be violent, the combatants
will not have to fight against opposition alone, but also against the
indifference of our own countrywomen, in whose behalf they would break
their lances. While this agitation among the men is on the tapis, that will be
the time for the women to rise up and let themselves be heard. Poor men—
you will have your hands full.
Oh, it is splendid just to live in this age, the transition of the old into the
new!
I read the other day, "Turn not away, you who are old of days, from
everything that is new. Consider all that is now old has once been new" (I
quote from memory).
I have written so much, I hope that I have not made you weary; and forgive
me, if I have been carried away by my enthusiasm and have here and there
written something that may cause you pain. Stella, forgive me for having
forgotten so entirely to whom I was speaking. I find such great sympathy in
you; you have told me that you and I were kindred spirits, and even as such
have I considered you. I am no Javanese, no child of the despised brown
race to you; and to me you do not belong to that white race around us that
holds the Javanese up to scorn and ridicule. You are white to me in your
understanding of the truth, white in heart and soul. For you I have a great
admiration. I love you with my whole heart, and many of my fellow

countrywomen would do likewise if they knew you. O that all Hollanders
were like you and some of my other white friends.
I have ordered "Berthold Meryan," but up to the present time I have not
received it; most likely the book-seller had first to order it from Holland. I
have read lately "Modern Women" translated from the French by Jeanette
van Riemsdijk; disappointed I laid the book down. I had seen so many
brilliant criticisms of this problem novel, it was said to be in all respects
finer than "Hilda van Suylenburg," to be powerful and without faults.
But for myself I still think "H.v.S." the Ratoe (princess) of all that up to
now has been written concerning woman's emancipation. I am on the
lookout now for a critic (!!) to whom I may speak my mind about "Modern
Women," for to my thinking that book lacks the strength and inspiration of
"H.v.S."
I read "H.v.S." through in one sitting. I locked myself in our room, and
forgot everything; I could not lay it down, it held me so.
It is a pity that my note-book is lost. I would ask you to read what I had
written there. It is an outline of a translation from the English and called
"The Aim of the Woman's Movement." I know of nothing better than that
having been in the "Gids" or even in the "Wetenschappelijke Bladen," and
then what you must read, if you do not already know it is "De Wajang
Orang" by Martine Tonnet; it is in the "Gids" November number. It is about
the Javanese and their art, and the court of Djokjakarta, very interesting;
you would enjoy it. I have just read for the second time "Minnebrieven" by
Multatuli. What a brilliant man he is. I am glad that soon a cheap edition of
all his works will appear. I shall be very affectionate to Father.
The Father of our Assistant-Resident is a good friend of Multatuli's; and
through him, we hear strange stories from the life history of that genius.
Couperus is still in India. When he is back in the Fatherland, I believe that a
brilliant book about my country will appear. Is not his style singularly clear
and beautiful?
[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.

VI
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.

VIII
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, must do
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.

August, 1900.
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.

X
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
the Locomotief (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! The Echo is now the
Nederlandsche 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.
[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.
[2] Government countries under the direct administration of the Dutch-Indian
Government.
[3] Henri Borel, novelist and journalist born in 1869. Also noted as an authority
on Chinese art and literature. The author of "Kwan Yin," "De Laatste Incarnatie,"
"Het Jongetje," etc.
[4] An "aspirant" is the lowest in rank among the Dutch officials in Java.

XI
August, 1900.[1]
"If we do not go to Holland, may I not go to Batavia and study medicine?"
Father's answer to this was easy enough to comprehend; "I must never
forget that I am a Javanese"; that it would not be possible for me to take
such a step now, after twenty years it will be different—now it would never
do. There would be too many trials and difficulties to be overcome because,
"I should be the first." Father could not contain himself any longer, but
sprang up and put an end to the conversation. Father said that he must first
think about this earnestly and speak with others and ask their advice.
At least Father did not wholly reject my idea, for Father knows that I wish
to become at any price, free, independent and unshackled, and that I could
never be happy in a married life as marriages are now, and have always
been.
Then I asked, "If the native girls' school of Dr. Abendanon should
materialize, may I not become a teacher?" and I told him what Mevrouw
Abendanon had proposed to me.
Moedertje, it was as though the doors of Heaven had sprung open and an
eternal splendour blazed before my eyes when I heard Father say: "That is
good; that is a splendid idea, you could do that very well."
"But first I should have to be trained for the position; I should have to go to
school for a year or so and study, to be able to pass the examination,
because I would not undertake the work unless I were fitted for it."
And Father thought I was right and agreed with me.
I was unspeakably happy, I had never thought that it would be so easy, not a
single bitter sharp word had been spoken; I felt as though a great weight
had been lifted from my heart. Father had been so tender, so loving. Then I
had not been mistaken in my faith in his love for me, in my belief in his

sympathy for his child: I knew that Father would suffer more than I, if he
should cause me misery and that he hoped even as fervently as I, that a way
might be found for me.
It was because of him that I felt so miserable for months; that I was so
vacillating, weak and cowardly; because I could not bear to hurt him, and I
felt that I must; for I could not debase myself or allow my woman's heart,
my dignity as a woman, as a human being, to be trampled upon. I would
have set myself against my parents. I was morally bound by my own pride
and self-respect, my duty to myself not to submit in silence. The inward
strife has been terrible.
And now I have won Father over to my side. With that the greatest
difficulty is overcome, the greatest stumbling block cleared from the way. I
can go forward now to meet the enemy unafraid, gay and self-confident,
with a smile on my face.
Now everything depends upon myself alone. It will be the fault of my own
will if by any chance I shall fail to reach my goal, but I am full of hope and
courage. I have already asked Father if I may tell the good news to
Mevrouw Abendanon, and I may; this very evening I am writing to you and
to her.
It is still doubtful whether the native girls' school will come into existence,
but I never despair. It will be accomplished one way or another, for there
are some, though not many, it is true, who are striving to help our native
world and to bring light to the native woman.
At Djokja we went to see Mevrouw Ter Horst, as I have already written
you. She was very cordial to us and went to the station to meet us, where
however she missed us, for we got off a station further on. She had a table
already spread for us when we arrived. We went to see her because she had
something to talk about with me.
She told me that the plans of Resident de B., of which we had known
nothing, differed from those of Dr. Abendanon. His idea was to build a
domestic school for daughters of native chiefs, with the Government's help,
if possible. If not, by some other means.

The Resident had asked her to sketch out a plan, the details of which he
would fill in; she now asked for my ideas, and what I thought the native
girls, daughters of chiefs, high and low, should be taught.
If the endeavour of Dr. Abendanon to found a native girls' school, should
fail, which Heaven forbid, and I should not become a teacher after all; then
you will not desert me Moedertje, will you? But you will try to help me to
obtain Father's permission to study medicine. May I not have that assurance
from you and your husband too? You could do so much because you have
great influence with Father.
Since that memorable noonday talk, Father has been so affectionate to me;
he takes my hand between his two hands tenderly, and puts his arm around
me so lovingly, as though he would protect me from some impending
danger. Through everything I feel his immeasurable love, and it makes me
very happy.
Since we have come back from Batavia, we have a queer feeling as though
we had only come home to rest until evening, to say "Good day" and then to
fly away again. Whither? I shall enjoy being at home now to the utmost for
nowhere in the whole world will it be as pleasant to me as in my own
parents' house, and I am so thankful because whenever—be it today or
tomorrow—I shall leave that house, it will be with their blessing; and I
hope also from my heart, with the blessing of its other inmates too.
As a child I could learn with a fair amount of ease, I was never backward,
but between then and now lies a whole lifetime. Everything that I learned at
the grammar school I have forgotten. I was twelve and a half years of age
when I left it. But one can almost always accomplish what one wishes to
very hard. Is it not true, Moedertje?
I have written this confession with the full conviction, the firm trust that no
one can take a warmer interest in my plans than you and Mijnheer, and what
I have just related concerns my whole future. I know that I can go to you at
any time when I need advice, support and comfort; in the time to come I
shall certainly go to you many times.
[1] To Mevrouw Ovink-Soer.

XII
7th October, 1900.[1]
I calmly bide my time. When it comes then men shall see that I am no
soulless creature, but a human being with a head and a heart, who can think
and feel. It is frightfully egotistical of me to make you a sharer in every
thing that concerns me. It brings light to me, but to you, it must be
vexation! Everything for myself, nothing for you. I long to tell you
everything simply because I love you so much. Draw back from me, thrust
me from your thoughts, from your heart, forget me, let me struggle alone,
for O God, you do not know into what a wasps' nest you stick your hand,
when you reach it out to me!
Let me alone, I shall only be thankful for your sympathy and because you
have crossed the path of my life and caused sunshine and flowers to fall
across it. Let our meeting be as that of ships on the wide ocean that pass in
the dark night. A meeting—a blithe greeting—a foamy track through the
smooth water and then—no more! But I fear—I know that you could never
go—by like that—even though you might wish it. Let us never speak of it
again.

A little while ago in talking to Mama, about something of interest to
women, I told her what I had said so many times before, that nothing
attracted me more, that nothing was more longed for by me than to be able
to fly alone upon my own wings. Mama said, "But there is no one now, not
among us, who does that!"
"Then it is time that some one should do it."
"But you know very well that every beginning is difficult. That the fate of
every innovator is hard. That misunderstanding, disappointment on top of
disappointment, ridicule, all await you; do you realize that?"

"I know it. But it is not today nor yesterday that these ideas have come to
me; they have lived in me for years."
"But what will come of it for yourself? Will it bring you contentment, make
you happy?"
"I know that the way I wish to go is difficult, full of thorns, thistles, pitfalls;
it is stormy, rough, slippery and it is—free! And even though I shall not be
happy after I have reached my goal, though I may give way before it is half
reached, I shall die gladly, for the path will then have been broken, and I
shall have helped to clear the way which leads to freedom and
independence for the native woman. I shall feel a great content because the
parents of other girls who wished to become independent would never be
able to say 'There is no one, not among us, who does that.'"
Strange, but I am not uneasy or disturbed; I am calm and full of courage;
only my stupid, foolish heart feels sick.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

XIII
October, 1900.[1]
I wish to prepare myself to teach the two grades, lower and higher; and also
to take courses in hygiene, bandaging and the care of the sick.
Later I should like to take a language course. First to learn thoroughly my
own mother tongue. I want to go on with my studies in Holland, because
Holland seems to me in all respects a more suitable place of preparation for
the great task which I would undertake.
How shall we greet each other when we meet at last? I know exactly what
you will say to me at first: "But child how stout you have grown!"
And I shall whisper between two hugs, "I have grown old, both outwardly
and inwardly, but that little spot in my heart where love is written in golden
letters remains the same, for ever young."
[1] To Mevrouw Ovink-Soer.

XIV
9th January, 1901.[1]
New conditions will come into the Javanese world, if not through us,
through others who will come after us. Emancipation is in the air; it has
been foreordained. And she whose destiny it is to be the spiritual mother of
the new age must suffer. It is the eternal law of nature: those who bear, must
feel the pain of bearing; but the child has all our love, though its very
existence, above that of all others living, has harassed us. Though it has
been received through suffering, it is eternally precious to us.

Nothing is more miserable than to feel the power to work within one, and
yet to be condemned to idleness. Thank God, this curse has been taken from
me.
A short while ago, a professor from Jena, Dr. Anton, with his wife, was here
with us; he was travelling in pursuance of his studies. They came here to
make our acquaintance.
I am afraid that people see too much in me. I am certain that they allow
themselves to be misled through the charm of novelty and perhaps also
through sympathy. We are a novelty to many people, especially to those
from a distance, to whom everything that is new is more or less attractive.
The professor expected us to be half savage, and found us quite like
ordinary people. The strangeness was all in our headdress, clothes and
surroundings, and these merely gave to the common place a stamp of
individuality.
Is it not pleasant to find one's own thoughts reflected in another? And when
the other is a stranger, some one of another race, from another part of the
world, of different blood, manners and customs, it but adds to the charm of
kinship of soul.

Still I am convinced that not a quarter so much notice would have been
taken of us, if we had worn petticoats instead of sarong and kabaja; had
Dutch manners, and if European instead of Javanese blood had flowed
through our veins.
Our friends made us a present of several books; among them that splendid
work by Baroness von Suttner, "De Wapens Neer Gelegd" (Lay down your
arms).

I have read several other books, among which "Moderne Maagden"[2]
impressed me most, because I had found in it much that I myself had
thought and experienced. Marcel Prévost has spoken the truth, and knows
how to express his ideas, I think his book very beautiful. Nowhere have I
seen the aim of the "Woman's movement" expressed with so much truth and
power. Still I am just as far from the solution of that great problem as I was
before making the acquaintance of "M.M."
I do not take it amiss that the writer—and this not in a spirit of childish
mockery—represents all opponents of the woman's movement with the
exception of Fedi and Lea, as absolutely base and detestable. What splendid
words he puts into the mouth of the lovable and deformed apostle of
feminism—Piruet—at the end of the book-words which express clearly the
whole aim of the woman's movement. I have taken a double pleasure in this
book because a man thought of it and wrote it.
Just before I read "Moderne Maagden," I wrote long letters to my two best
friends here. Now I want to write to them again while I am still under its
influence. I want to point out the analogies between much that is in the
book and both the intimate letters.
[2] Dutch version of "Les vierges fortes" by Marcel Prévost.

I wish that I had some one here to talk to me about "M.M." There is so
much in it that I should like to discuss with some one of experience and
understanding.
I have a great deal to tell you about the establishment of schools for native
girls. It is now generally discussed but I must be brief today. The plan of Dr.
Abendanon was looked upon with interest by every one. Many influential

European officials gave it their warm support, and it is upon them its
success depends.
We have many friends among the high European officials and these are
striving with Dr. Abendanon to lift our native women out of their age-long
misery. There are also many unknown to us personally who are deeply
interested in the cause. I shall send you a circular by Dr. Abendanon
addressed to the heads of the provincial Government, concerning the
establishment of these schools. "In all ages the progress of woman has been
an important factor in the civilization of a people." "The intellectual
education of the Javanese people can never progress if the woman is to be
left behind."
"The woman as the carrier of civilization." Stella, does not your heart beat
warmly for our friend?
For the last year there has been great progress among the natives. They are
growing more earnest and are interested in the study of your beautiful
language. Many Europeans see this with regretful eyes. Although there are
others who are noble-minded and rejoice.
In many cities small Dutch schools have sprung up like mushrooms, and
they are filled with little children as well as with grown men, who have
been for years in the service of the state.
Influential men in the Government, with the Governor-General at their
head, are strongly in favour of spreading the Dutch language among the
natives, not only for enlightenment but as a means of bringing the Javanese
nearer to the Hollanders; so that these last may seem, not as strangers, but
as loved protectors.
[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.

XV
21 January, 1901.[1]
We went at midday to the shore with Mevrouw Conggrijp to bathe. It was
splendidly calm, and the sea was all one colour. I sat on a rock with my feet
in the water, and my eyes on the distant horizon. Oh! the world is so
beautiful! Thanksgiving and peace were in my heart. If we go to Mother
Nature for consolation she will not allow us to go away uncomforted.

I have thought so long and so much about education, especially of late, and
I think it such a high, holy task that I feel that it would be a sin to dedicate
myself to it, and not be able to fill in my account to the utmost; if I thought
otherwise, I should be a teacher without worth.
Education means the forming of the mind and of the soul. I feel that with
the education of the mind the task of the teacher is not complete. The duty
of forming the character is his; it is not included in the letter of the law, but
it is a moral duty. I ask myself if I am able to do this? I who am still so
uneducated myself.
I often hear it asserted that when the mind is cultivated, the spirit grows of
itself; but I have seen for a long time that that is not always the case, that
education and intellect are not always a patent of morality. But one must not
judge those whose spirits remain unawakened, who lack the higher
education of the soul, too harshly; in most cases the fault lies not in
themselves, but in their bringing up. Great care has been taken in the
cultivation of the understanding, but in the cultivation of the character,
none!
I subscribe warmly to Mijnheer's idea, which is set forth so clearly in his
paper on the "Education of Native Girls," "Woman as the Carrier of
Civilization!" Not because she has always shared the fate of man, and is a

partner in his destiny, but because as I too am firmly convinced, she has a
great and far-reaching influence, which can be for either good or evil; and
because she, most of all, can help toward the spiritual regeneration of the
world.
Man receives from woman his very earliest nourishment, at her breast, the
child learns to feel, to think and to speak; and I see more and more clearly
that the very earliest education has an influence which extends over one's
whole after life. But how can the native women teach their children when
they themselves are so ignorant?
There is great interest in education in the whole world of native women, so
far as we know it. Many wish that they might be children again, so that they
might profit by this opportunity. And splendid! the number of native
scholars at Parti, Kodoes, Japara and the other districts are the first visible
foreshadowings of success. Already there are some girls' schools among the
people and their number is increasing.
Tomorrow my mother will send a little girl (half orphan and child of her
Anek Mas[2]) to school and last month our parents sent a good studious boy
to learn to read in Dutch.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.
[2] Foster nurse.

XVI
31st January, 1901.[1]
I turn my face pensively to the far away, staring into the blue light, as
though I expected to find there an answer to the tumultuous questions of my
soul. My eyes follow the clouds as they journey through the vast heavens
till they disappear behind the waving green leaves of the cocoanut trees. I
see the glistening leaves painted with the gold of the sun, and suddenly the
thought comes, "Ask them why does the sun shine? What sends his rays? O
my sun, my golden sun! I shall strive to live so that I may be worthy to be
shone upon, and tended and warmed by your light."
Do not be distressed dear, if things do not go as I would have them. My life
shall not have been in vain: there is always something to be done. I will
have it so! Those who seek God do not live in vain—and whosoever
seeketh after God will find happiness, truth and peace of soul—and these
are to be found at Modjowarno[2] as well. Who knows? perhaps there
sooner than somewhere else. Never be discouraged; never be dismayed! We
are only thankful that in any event a beginning has been made, that the
foundations of our freedom and independence are being built.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.
[2] In the Residency of Soerabaja. The most important as well as the oldest
mission station in Java. It includes schools and hospitals. A medical missionary
at Modjowarno had offered to train Kartini as a mid-wife, if her plan of going to
Holland should fail.

XVII
19 March, 1901.
Highly Honoured Dr. Adriani:
For a long time I have wanted to write to you, but several things, among
them the indisposition of almost all of my family, have prevented me.
Now that the whole kaboepaten, great and small, is again rejoicing in
excellent health, I shall not allow this letter to remain any longer unwritten.
It has been in my thoughts so long, and doubtless you have expected it as
well. Forgive me for the delay.
First of all I want to send my hearty thanks for your amiable letter to my
sister Roekmini, and for your kindness in sending the books.
The three of us were made so happy by them, and are still for that matter.
We think it is splendid that you should think of us. We also think and speak
of you and of your Toradjas,[1] of your work, and of everything that we
discussed that evening at the Abendanons'. The hours that we spent in your
company are among the most delightful memories of our visit to Batavia.
We hope with our whole hearts that will not be our only meeting, but that
we may see you often again. What a pleasure it would be to us, if some day
we might bid you welcome to Japara.
We have much sympathy for the work of the Christian missionaries in
Dutch India, and we admire the nobility of heart of those who have
established themselves in the most remote stretches of wilderness, far from
their own country and kindred, and from all congenial companions, and cut
themselves off from the world in which by virtue of birth, ability and
education they would have an honourable position, to bring light into the
lives of fellow men called by the cultivated world "savages."
We read both your letters with deep interest and I am grateful to you for
telling us so much that was interesting, and of which we were ignorant.

In 1896 we had the privilege and pleasure of witnessing a solemnity the
memory of which will probably remain with us all of our lives. That was
the dedication of the new church at Kedoeng Pendjalin. It was the first time
that we had ever been in a Christian church, and at a Christian service, and
what we saw and heard there made a deep impression upon us. It was long
ago, but it is still fresh in my memory. The spacious building was decorated
with green foliage and the singing which echoed under the high roof was
beautiful. With the reverent attentive multitude we followed the words
which came forth from the chancel in pure Javanese.
Besides the Heer Hubert, there were three missionary students, who
preached upon the occasion; and it was certainly not the least solemn
moment of the whole solemn service, when an old decrepit Javanese stood
up to speak of his faith to his fellow-countrymen. Everything was so
impressive that the occasion has always been a memorable one to me.
It was on that morning that I had seen the outside world again for the first
time since my school-days.
We read in the paper under the sailing news that Mevrouw was back again
in India, so she will be with you very soon. We were right glad for your
sake, when we read it. This letter is as though we made you and Mevrouw a
visit of felicitation upon her return, to wish her, although we are still
unknown to her, a hearty welcome to Mapane. Are not the Toradjas very
happy to have their "Mother" among them again?
[1] A race in middle Celebes among whom Dr. Adriani worked.

XVIII
20th May, 1901.[1]
I have been through so much in my young life, but it is all as nothing in
comparison with what I have suffered in these last dreadful days of Father's
illness.
There were hours when I was without will, but trembled with inward pain
and the lips that had defiantly proclaimed "Come what may," now
stammered "God pity me." My birthday was a double feast—a celebration
also of Father's restoration to health. I let Father see your present, and told
him how pleased you were with his portrait. Father lay upon a lounging
chair; I sat next to him on the floor, his hand resting upon my head; it was
thus that I spoke to him of you.
Father smiled when I told him of your enthusiastic expression of sympathy
for him, and with that smile on his face, and certainly with a thought for the
distant and loved friend of his child, my sick one slept.
See how near you are to me, Stella—to us. Do you believe now that it was
not lack of affection which kept me silent for so long, and can you forgive
that silence now?
Let me earnestly thank you now for your friendship and your love, which
have added so much to my life, and let me now press you fast to my heart in
thought. If I could only see you in reality, face to face and heart to heart, so
that I could open my soul to you—my soul which is so full of sadness.
Stella, my Stella, I should be so glad if I could make you happy with but
one rejoicing letter, cheer you with the tidings that we had succeeded, that
we had reached our goal. Alas, instead this bears a complaint; I do not like
to complain but the truth must be told.
An unexpected turn has come in our affairs; the question is now more
difficult than ever; it is a matter of standing or falling, of blessed success or
of complete undoing, and—OUR HANDS ARE BOUND.

There is a duty which is called gratitude; there is a high holy duty called
filial love, and there is a detestable evil called egoism! Sometimes it is so
difficult to see where the good ends, and the bad begins. One may go a
certain distance, and then the boundary between the two extremes is hardly
visible. Father's health is such that he is subject to severe heart attacks. Do
you know what that means? We are defenceless—delivered over to the
pleasure of blind fate.
We have stood so close to the fulfillment of our dearest wishes, and now we
are again far away. It is a bitter awakening after we had thought that all
stumbling blocks had been cleared from our way. The poor, tortured heart
cries out, "What is my duty?" and no answer comes, while those who wait
grope round in deepest darkness.
We can no longer seek for consolation in that splendid plan of the
Government to open a school which would educate the daughters of
Regents to become teachers; nothing will ever come of it. For many
Regents whose consent had to be obtained, declared themselves against any
innovation that would interfere with the custom of secluding young girls,
and releasing them from their imprisonment by allowing them to go away
from home to school.
It has been a hard blow for us, for we had built all our hopes upon it. Adieu
illusions—adieu golden dreams of the future! You were too beautiful to be
true.
I used to sit idly and take pleasure in the thought of how your eyes would
shine when you heard the splendid news. And now the whole proposal has
evaporated like smoke—has gone to the moon.
I do not know exactly how the matter stands; our friends at Batavia are
away on a journey, but it goes very, very badly. Now if the plan for the
domestic school for native girls should be in the same case, put down
through the unwillingness of the parents themselves, there will be nothing
left.
My fingers burn to write about the splendid plans of the Director of
Education, and about the proposed education of Regents' daughters to be

teachers, but I remain idle. I must not express my opinions on important
subjects, least of all through means of the press.
Many persons in our immediate surroundings know nothing of what is
brooding and raging within us; they know nothing of our plans. One of our
acquaintances who comes to the house often, read in the newspapers about
the proposed school for Regents' daughters, and said to my sisters, that
would be just the thing for me, and that she and her husband would urge me
to think seriously about it! Her husband spoke to me of the same thing, and
with a blank face, as though knowing nothing, I let him speak.
Both husband and wife are enthusiastic for the work of emancipating the
native woman. He is a government official, and for that reason can do much
for our cause. He will soon be promoted, and then they will both be able to
do much more for our people.
We have devised a plan for her, and she and her husband have listened to it
with interest. When he becomes Assistant Resident, she is to invite the little
daughters of the native officials serving under him to come to her house on
certain fixed days, and give them instruction in handiwork and cooking;
perhaps also in reading and writing. That would be a useful and beneficent
work; the lady is delighted with the idea.
I have naturally told her much about you. She will become with pleasure a
member of the Onderlinge Vrouwenbescherming.[2] She has two little
daughters in Holland; one wishes to become an advocate, and the other too
will study a profession.
I told her that it was my earnest wish before I started out in life in whatever
capacity, to spend first at least half a year at work in a hospital to learn
something of the care of the sick because now if sickness should fall under
my hands, I should not know which way to turn. She said at once that her
brother-in-law who is a doctor, would help to initiate me into the secrets of
sick nursing. The doctor is a newcomer, speaks no Javanese and very
broken Malay. I can be of service to him in turn by acting as interpreter, for
a large majority of his patients are either natives or Chinese.
I am thinking seriously of this plan of spending some time in a hospital, it
would add a great deal to my education; I have sat and pondered over it

long. What do you think of it? Oh it is misery on top of misery to see some
one suffer frightful pain, and not to know how to alleviate that pain. Those
who watch suffer even more than the patient himself. I have sat by many
sick beds, even as a child, and speak from experience. The idea of studying
nursing came to me at the bed-side of a dear one.
Later I shall speak out and say frankly what I have in my heart in regard to
the education of girls. I shall plead for the importance of a knowledge of
hygiene and of the structure of the human body to women. I want to see
hygiene and physiology placed on the curriculum of the school, which is to
be erected. Poor bunglers, eh? who after so much hodge-podge must gulp
down those subjects. What an ideal school that Institute for Native Young
Ladies will be! Science, cooking, house-keeping, handiwork, hygiene and
vocational training; all must be there! It is only a dream, but let us dream if
it makes us happy. Why not?

What I have written thus far for the public has been but nonsense, suggested
by some special happening or other. I may never mention serious subjects,
alas! Later, when we shall have wholly wrested ourselves loose from the
iron grip of age-long traditions, it will be different.
It would be different now, were it not for the love which we have for our
dearest parents. Father would not be pleased if the name of his daughter
should be rolled under the tongues of men. When I am wholly free and
independent, I shall speak out and say what I think. So till that time comes,
patience, Stella, for I cannot send you nonsense. When I write something in
which I myself am pleased, in which my deepest convictions are expressed,
I shall send it to you.

[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.
[2] Society for the Protection of Fallen Women.

XIX
10th June, 1901.[1]
We know what Borel has written on the gamelan (he calls it soul music). Do
you know other things by him as well? "Het Jongetje" is charming. Many
think Borel morbid and unwholesome, but we enjoy him. "De laatste
incarnatie" is very fine, and his "Droom uit Tosari" is still finer, in that he
writes of the wonderful natural beauty of Java's blue mountains. How much
we enjoyed it! One must be an artist, or at least, have been subjected to a
lively dose of artistic feeling to see and take pleasure in the beauties of
Mother Nature, and to be able to express it in fine, clear style; such an one
must be a dear privileged human child, upon whose forehead the muses
have pressed a kiss.
I hope some day to have an opportunity to study your beautiful, musical
language; I shall not let the chance go by without making use of it, you may
be assured. To be able to read and write it would make me happy above
everything. And if I should ever be so fortunate as to master the German
language then I shall go and look for you. Will it not be a good idea? In the
meantime flying machines will have come into use, and on some golden
day you will see one of them flutter over Jena's blue horizon bringing a
guest from afar!
I should indeed have been born a boy; then, perhaps, I should be able to
carry out some of my high-flying plans. Now, as a girl, in our present native
civilization, it is almost impossible to take a little walk down a turnpike.
How can anything else be expected, when in Europe, the centre of
civilization, and of enlightenment, the strife should have been so long and
so bitter for the good right of the woman? Could one in earnest expect that
India, uncivilized, unenlightened, slumbering India, should take it well that
her daughters, women who through centuries had been looked upon as
beings of a lower order—yes, why should I not say it—as soulless
creatures, should suddenly be regarded as human beings, who have a right
to independent ideas, to freedom of thought, of feeling and of conduct?

Alas! nothing will come of that splendid plan of the Government, from
which we expected so much; nothing will come of it because the majority
of native chiefs opposed it. Adieu illusions! Ah! I have often thought and
repeated aloud, that dreams and ideals were useless ballast in our Native
civilization, a superfluous and dangerous luxury! But that says the mouth
alone, at the instigation of the cold understanding. It makes no impression
upon that stupid crazy thing, the heart. For dreams of freedom have taken
such deep root in our hearts, that they are never more to be uprooted
without making desolate the soil from which they have sprung.
I think it is very good of you to give yourself such concern in regard to my
future. I am deeply grateful. But oh, do you know nothing but sadness
concerning me? We know what awaits us. We three are going hand in hand
through life that for us will be full of struggle and disappointment! The way
that we have chosen is certainly not strewn with roses; it is filled with
thorns, but we have chosen it out of love, and with love and a joyous mind
we shall follow it.
It leads to the raising of thousands and thousands of poor oppressed and
down-trodden souls, our sisters; it leads toward freedom and happiness for
millions. For our fellow countrymen too will inevitably be brought to a
higher moral condition, and then they will work with us on that eternal
work of striving for perfection. That giant's work at which through the
centuries the noblest and best have toiled, trying to lead mankind upward
toward the light, and in short, to bring our beautiful earth nearer to Heaven.
Is not that worth striving for all one's life?
It is the dream of "Tiga Soedara," the three Javanese sisters in the distant
sunny land. Oh, could we but go to the land of changing seasons, the land
of warmth and cold, the fatherland of learning, to prepare ourselves there
for the good fight that we wish to make for the future happiness and well-
being of our people. Above all the mind should be cultivated, before one
can do good. Although people assert that to do good and to be intellectual
are two different things; but I think that it takes the greatest wisdom to
overcome the opposing forces that we human beings all feel in us, to temper
them, and to regulate them so that they may work harmoniously together. I
have seen so often that to try to do good ignorantly, does more harm than
good.

Europe! Must you then remain always unattainable for us? We, who long
for you with heart and soul.
But I do not believe in repining. Life is too beautiful—too splendid—to be
wasted in complaints about things which can never be changed. Let us be
thankful for the many blessings that the good God has bestowed upon us.
Are we not fortunate above thousands and thousands of others, in the
possession of our dear parents, good health, and in a number of little
blessings, which make up the sum of our daily lives?
When we have enjoyed the music of singing birds then we are thankful that
God has not created us deaf! When we are at Klein Scheveningen, that
idyllic spot by the sea, where everything breathes quiet and peace, and
watch the sun go down, then we know that we cannot be grateful enough
that we have good eyes to enjoy the beautiful light which plays upon the
golden water, and in the Heaven above it! and a still prayer of thanksgiving
toward the invisible Great Spirit who created everything and governs
everything—a joyful thanksgiving rises from my heart, thanksgiving that I
may, and am able to see so much. For there are many who cannot. Not only
the poor people to whom the days and nights are as one, an impenetrable
blackness, but there are many who are in full possession of their faculties,
yet never see.
And we realize how privileged we are above so many of our fellow men,
and gratitude for all the blessings of the good God fills our souls. But is it
not a sad thought that we must be reminded of the lack in others, in order to
appreciate our own advantages?
There are many educated native women; many, many cleverer and more
talented than we, who have been hampered not at all in the cultivation of
their minds, who could have become anything that they would, and yet they
have done nothing, have attempted nothing that could lead to the uplifting
of their sex, and of their race. They have either fallen back wholly into the
old civilization, or gone over to that of the Europeans; in both cases being
lost to their people to whom they could have been a blessing, if they had but
willed it. Is it not the duty of all those who are educated and on a higher
plane to stand by with their greater knowledge and seek to lighten the way

for those who are less fortunate? No law commands this, but it is a moral
duty.
Forgive me if I have tired you by writing at too great length. How did I
come to take up so much of your valuable time with the babble? Forgive
me, but you yourself are not without blame; your two letters which are
lying before me are so sympathetic; when I read their cordial words, it is as
though I had you before me, and that is what I have imagined all the time
that I have been writing.
That one of Java's volcanoes on the Eastern cape has broken out frightfully,
and cost many lives, you will certainly have learned from others, so I shall
not write of that. According to the papers, two other volcanoes are now
active. Oh, inscrutable, beautiful blue mountains!
The eclipse of the sun on the 18th of May, for the observation of which
scientists from all over the world came to Java, we could scarcely see here
at all, owing to the unfortunate weather. The day was cloudy and there was,
and is still rain. But what was vexation to us, was a blessing to the farmers!
Father was made very happy by the good rain which refreshed the thirsty
fields, and so much depends upon that. So much can depend upon a single
shower of rain, woe or weal to hundreds, yes to thousands.
[1] To Professor and Mrs. G.K. Anton of Jena.

XX
June 6, 1901.[1]
Dear Hilda:
Let me begin by sending you both, in the name of my sisters too, heartfelt
wishes of happiness on the birth of your second son. We hope from our
hearts that he may become just such a sweet, healthy little fellow as his
brother, who will grow in time into a fine man, and make you both right
proud.
How does our little friend act under his new dignity of big brother? Does he
not want to play with Alfred right away? The little one is too eager, is it not
true?
A May child! De Genestet has written such a beautiful poem about that; the
ending is sad but I fervently hope that the prayer of the poet in the last two
couplets may be fulfilled for your May child. Although naturally you know
the lines yourself, I cannot help repeating them again here:

"De God der lente spreide[2]
U rozen voor den voet
De God der liefde leide
U sachtkens, trouw en goed!

Bloei in uw vaders gaarde,
Bloei aan uw moeders zij
Hun schoonste bloem op aarde,
Gij, knaapje van den Mei!"
I hear you laugh when you have read the verses, how foolish, eh? but do not
be surprised at them, all old aunts become more or less sentimental, and to
that category belongs she who now writes.
[1] To Mevrouw de Booij-Boissevain.
[2]

"May the God of springtime spread,
Roses before your feet,
May the God of love lead and
Keep you gentle, true and good!

Bloom in your father's garden,
Bloom at your mother's side,
The loveliest flower on earth to them,
Thou little blossom of May!"

XXI
1st of August, 1901.[1]
We Javanese cannot live without flowers and sweet odours. The native
flowers in their splendour awaken in me a world of thought and feeling
whenever I breathe in their perfume. Days afterwards it lives in my
memory, and I feel the strong Javanese blood coursing through my veins.
Oh soul of my people, that used to be too beautiful, that was full of
kindness, poetry, gentleness and modesty—what has become of you? What
have time and slothfulness not made of you?
It is so often said that we are more European than Javanese in our hearts.
Sad thought! We know that we are impregnated with European ideas and
feelings—but the blood, the Javanese blood that flows live and warm
through our veins, can never die. We feel it in the smell of incense and in
the perfume of flowers, in the tones of the gamelan, in the sighing of the
wind through the tops of the cocoa-nut trees, the cooing of the turtle doves,
the whistling of the fields of ripened rice, in the pounding of the haddi-
blokken[2] at the time of the rice harvest.
Not for nothing have we passed our whole lives amid surroundings where
everything depends upon form; we have learned the emptiness of those
forms, their lack of meaning and of substance; there is much good in the
Javanese people. We are so anxious for you to admire our people. When I
see something fine, some trait of character, that is peculiarly Javanese, then
I think "How glad I should be if Mevrouw A. were with us. She would be
pleased at this thing, would appreciate it, she who has wide open eyes for
everything that is noble."
Our little Javanese woodcarver-artist as you call him, has made something
very beautiful with the whole wajanghistory[3] carved upon it. Wajang
figures on the cover, on the outside and inside both, and on all four walls.
There is a case designed to protect it, which is also ornamented with wajang
figures. The box is lined with orange satin, which is gathered and pleated,

and it is set off by a silver rim, also of native workmanship. Indeed it ought
to be very beautiful, for it is designed to hold the portraits of the Regents of
Java and Madeira, which the queen has ordered sent to her. This mark of
homage is a pretty idea. The Regent of Garoat ordered the box and I was
given free play. I might spend as much as I liked for both objects.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.
[2] In Java the rice is beaten from the husks by great wooden mortars. The
pounding noise made by these on the sawahs (rice fields) at the time of the
harvest produces a monotonous cadence.
[3] Wajang is the Javanese drama, it is very ancient and in the 9th century was
already a traditional institution in its present form. It presents always the
romantic legends or sagas of the Island, though some of the stories are versions
of those in Hindu mythology and were introduced after the Hindu occupation of
Java. There are three principal forms of wajang, the most common is the wajang
kĕlitik or little wajangs, puppets made of leather. The master of the show or
delang manipulates the strings and recites the lines behind the scenes. Sometimes
the performances last from 7.30 in the evening until 6 in the morning. The
wajang topeng or lyric drama existed in the year 1000 and probably earlier. The
performers are men and women wearing grotesque masks. Animal masks such as
tigers, elephants, wild boars, birds, etc., are often worn. In the presence of
royalty the actors play unmasked.
The wajang beber is of very early origin and is a shadow play, shadows of
marionettes being shown through a white cloth.
At the time of the Mohammedan conquest in the 15th century and after the
forcible conversion of the Javanese to Mohammedanism, an effort was made to
change the wajangs to conform with the Mohammedan law which forbade the
representation of human beings, hence the introduction of the grotesque
contorted masks still in use.
Wajang performances are always accompanied by gamelan music, explanatory
verse and a chorus with chants.

XXII
August 19, 1901.[1]
You must have thought it ungracious of me to remain silent for so long after
your charming letter and your goodness in sending the dear kiekje, which I
have enjoyed so much. The silence has not been from lack of appreciation,
but because the one wholly sound Kartini had all of her time taken up with
the little sick sisters. It was so warm, it was not hard to exaggerate a little
indisposition, so that we could not help spoiling our invalids. Just now one
of the pairs of eyes which I have seen so troubled, peeped over my shoulder
and read this. Child, child, what do you gain by it? The children will never
hear any praise from me, I assure you. But what am I doing now—speaking
ill of my dear little sisters?

Nothing is impossible in this world. What we look upon today as an
impossibility, tomorrow may be an accomplished fact.
There is a restlessness in our native civilization, the spirit of progress is
moving among us. It is strongly combated by the inherent love which the
Javanese has for the ancient "laws." There will be a hard fight before these
hoary ideas and customs shall be deeply buried in the ground, never again
to rise.
[1] To Mevrouw H.G. de Booij-Boissevain.

XXIII
August, 1901.[1]
I should be so glad, so happy, if I could be in a position to lead children's
hearts, to form little characters, to awaken young minds, to help to mould
the women of the future who will be able to carry forward enlightenment
like a torch. There is much misery in our Javanese woman's world, there has
always been so much suffering, so much bitterness.
The only road which lies open to a Javanese girl, and above all to one of
noble birth, is marriage.
From far and near we know of the horrible misery of the woman caused by
certain Mohammedan institutions that are so easy for the man, but oh, so
bitterly hard and miserable for her.
"She soon grows accustomed to it, she finds that it is nothing," say the wise
men, and then "We should have no more peace if we put such ideas into her
head."
Let me, a child of Java, nourished at her breast, who has lived here all her
life, assure you that the native women have honest, simple hearts that can
feel and suffer as well as the most delicate, sensitive woman's heart in your
country.
But here there is a suppressed suffering which consumes itself. For she feels
herself powerless and defenceless through her ignorance and inexperience.
The old traditions speak. Fatima's bridegroom takes a new wife and she is
asked by the prophet what she feels: "Nothing, Father, nothing," she
declared. And while saying this she leaned against a banana tree; the leaves,
formerly fresh and green, withered, and the trunk against which her body
rested shrivelled into ashes.
Again the Father asked her what she felt and she said, "Nothing, Father,
nothing."

The Father gave her a raw egg and bade her hold it against her heart; he
asked her to give it back to him, he broke it open and the egg was cooked.
The Eastern woman's heart has not changed. Many think it an honour to
tolerate with unmoved countenances the one or more women their husbands
have brought home, but do not ask what is hidden behind that iron mask, or
what the walls of their dwellings could tell when the eyes of the world are
removed. There are so many burning women's hearts, with poor, innocent,
suffering, childlike souls.
And it was the misery that I saw, even in my childish years, that first
awakened in me the desire to fight against these time-honoured customs,
and substitute justice for old tradition.
Our work will have a two-fold aim, first to help to enlighten all our people,
and secondly to raise up our sisters, so that they may live and be treated as
human beings. To all of you who have sympathy for Java, and the Javanese,
we send an urgent prayer—help us to realize our ideals; they mean so much
to our people and to our sex.
Raise the Javanese woman, educate her heart and her understanding, and
you will have splendid workers to co-operate with you in your noble work,
your giant's work, the work of civilizing and enlightening a whole nation.
Teach her a trade, so that she will no longer be powerless when her
guardians command her to contract a marriage which will inevitably plunge
her and whatever children she may have into misery.
The only escape from such conditions is for the girl herself to learn to be
independent.
There is no one yet who does it, who dares do it.
It is a disgrace for a girl not to marry, to remain an unprotected woman.
Our idea is to open, as soon as we have the means, an institute for the
daughters of Native chiefs, where they will be fitted for practical life and
will be taught as well the things which elevate the spirit, and ennoble the
mind.

Would such a school succeed? We are bold enough to answer "Yes." Many
of the native chiefs send their daughters to school now, but it is only for the
accomplishments, and not because they expect it to be of any practical use;
or of real benefit to the woman herself. Still that does not minimize the
importance of the fact that more and more, they are educating their
daughters. The many government and private schools can testify to the truth
of this. Even the Emperor of Solo sends his daughters to school.
In progressive Preanger, where the education of girls is no new thing, a
special school for daughters of the nobles, subsidized by the Government,
has been opened. There are even Regents' daughters who go to a domestic
school in a strange place!
Then there are many parents who would like to send their daughters to
school, yet refuse to send them where they would have to study with boys.
The expense of having a governess is far beyond the means of an ordinary
native magistrate, only a few are able to afford it. No wedona who has not
an independent fortune can keep a governess for his little daughter.
There was a young mother who asked her husband on the last day of her life
as a dying request, to carry out one of her dreams, which was, as soon as he
should be in better circumstances, to send her little daughter to the
European school.
We have talked over this question, and also the idea of an independent self-
supporting woman, many times with the wives of native chiefs, and all of
them have strengthened us in our belief that some one is only needed to
take the first step; to set the example, and then the path will have been
opened and others will follow it. There are many girls who think and feel as
we and who would be glad to break the bonds in which the Mohammedan
law holds them cloistered. But they remain quiescent before that "There is
no one now who does it."
There must be some one to be first.
There is a native chief who sought permission from the Director of
Education for his daughter to enter the medical school. Thrice blessed
Father—thrice blessed daughter! she will be of great service to her country.
I hope that she will be able to carry out her intentions.

A younger sister of mine, Roekmini, has a great love for painting and it is
her wish to be able to study at the Art Academy, so that later she may work
for the development of our native art. Does not a people's art go hand in
hand with a people's civilization? And if she found that the Art Academy
was not the place for her, that she had not sufficient talent, then she could
go to the Household School and later teach the future women the worth of
money, which would be a very useful thing for our people.
My sister and I should then be able to work together. And what we are most
anxious to have taught in our future schools is hygiene, and a knowledge of
sanitation and nursing. Hygiene and nursing should be part of one's
education. So many misfortunes could have been averted or at least reduced
to a minimum, if every one, men, as well as women, had been taught
something of this useful study.
It is not in the least our intention to try to make European-Javanese of the
Javanese by giving them liberal educations; our idea is to develop the fine
qualities that are peculiar to their race; to help them to gain by contact with
another civilization, not to the detraction of their own, but to its
enoblement.

I enjoyed your introduction so much to "The Land and People of Java." It
warmed my heart to read the charming manner in which the beauty of my
country was pictured and its wonder places described.
Often an overpowering feeling of happiness comes over us, when we are
out in God's free nature. Far from the doings of little souled men, alone with
nature; above our heads the blue heavens and at our feet the unfathomable
sea, behind us waving cocoanut palms. Oh! who would not be happy amid
such surroundings?
Sometimes I am betrayed into an egotistical thought, "Oh, let me live alone
in this pure atmosphere, far from the noise of the market place, from
worldly cares, alone with nature, and with my own soul!" That is pure
egoism! it is not the voice of life, we are meant to live with and for
humanity. But I have kept you too long already; you have other and more

useful things to do than to read all this prattle from a "sentimental" Javanese
girl.
[1] To Mevrouw Van Kol.

XXIV
September 4, 1901.[1]
We will not, we cannot believe that our lives will be only commonplace and
monotonous like the lives of thousands of others before us, and as will be
those of thousands of those who come after us! and yet any other destiny
seems so improbable. Only once the fulfilment of our nearest and dearest
wishes seemed near; now it is unattainably far away.
There are hours when the tortured human heart, torn with doubt, cries, "My
God, what is my duty?" Seeing two duties which directly oppose and
antagonize one another. Yet how can two things that are diametrically
opposed be called by the same name?
"Stay," says a voice behind me, "surrender your own wishes and longings to
the will of him who is dear to you, and to whom you are dear; the struggle
has been good, for it has served to strengthen and ennoble your own spirit.
Stay!" And then again, I hear another voice ever loud and clear, which says:
"Go, work for the realization of your ideals; work for the future; work for
the good of thousands who are bent beneath the yoke of unjust laws, who
have a false conception of good and evil. Go suffer and fight. Your work
will be for all time!" Which is the higher duty, the first or the last?
There are not many people in the world, never mind how closely they may
be bound together by ties of blood, who love and understand one another as
do my Father and I. There is much resemblance in our characters. We
sympathize in everything with each other; there is only one point where we
differ. Oh, why that one, why? Is it true, what is told us, that in the whole of
wide, wide nature no two things are absolutely alike?
Father has borne so patiently with all my caprices; I have never heard a
harsh or bitter word from his lips. He is always loving, always gentle.
Through everything I feel his great love. Some time ago when I pressed him
for a decision, he looked at me so sorrowfully, it was as if his sad eyes
asked, "Are you in such haste to leave me, child?"

I turned away my head; I did not wish to see the dear true eyes; I wanted to
be strong and not weak.
My heart almost broke once, when, as we two stood opposed to each other,
father clasped me in his arms, and in a voice trembling with emotion said,
"Must it be so, child? Is there no other way? Must it be?" And we stayed
there, heart pressed to heart, looking into each other's eyes.
That was a heavy time, as heavy as a time can well be on this earth. It was
shortly before Father's illness. Later, when father was recovering, Mother
said to me, "Ah, child, give in to him."
"I cannot," I answered in a choking voice.
Since then Mother has never spoken about it to me. But when Father gives
his consent, she will not withhold hers. She is all love and tenderness
towards us, but that only makes the struggle the harder.
Pain nothing but pain, is all that we have brought to those true loving
hearts.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon

XXV
30th September, 1901.[1]
In Preanger there are a great many women and girls who have been to
school, and who speak Dutch. Most of those whose acquaintance we made
talked Dutch with us because we do not know each other's language.[2]
Strange! that we should make an agreeable acquaintance with people of our
own country, and of kindred race by means of a foreign tongue. Our
intercourse was cordial, free and unrestrained. They are a cheerful people,
full of jest and merriment.

I have many things in my mind. Sometimes my fingers itch so to write
down my thoughts, to be able to throw them in the faces of the multitude.
But what good would that do? People would shrug their shoulders, some of
them would laugh, and most of them would take no notice whatever. One
might as well be an idiot or a simpleton.
Perhaps it is better so, for who knows what harm a pen might do in the
hands of an inexperienced, uncomprehending hothead.
Now after that tirade, something that you will think pleasant.
A short while ago the Quarteros, with another Comptroller, were at our
house. The gentlemen were speaking of a Regent whom the strange
comptroller knew well. "A fine man," we heard him say, and then, "No, he
is not married, except to a woman whom he cannot present, just an ordinary
woman of the people by whom he has several children. He does not intend
to marry; he will marry no Raden-Ajoe because then he would have to send
the woman away, or relegate her to a second place, in either case making
her miserable, and he will not do that."

My heart leapt when I heard that. Then there is indeed such an one!
Splendid!
Mevrouw Quartero told us afterwards that both she and her husband
glanced quickly at us, thinking at the same time, "Should the girls have
heard that, how he will rise in their esteem?" So it is, too. We hope fervently
that the Regent will always remain of the same mind, and that he will never
be turned aside from his good resolution.
It would be a great pleasure to us to make his acquaintance; we hope that
we may some day.
The young guard, regardless of sex, should band themselves together. We
can each of us do something unaided, towards the uplifting and civilizing of
our people, but if we were united our strength would be multiplied many
times. By working together we could gather a goodly store of fruit.
In union there is strength, and power.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.
[2] In the Preanger Regencies Sundanese is spoken; it bears the same relation to
Javanese that Scotch did to English in the 17th century.

XXVI
October 11, 1901.[1]
And now dear friend, I am going to speak of myself and give you in
strictest confidence some idea of our plans. As doctors, accoucheuses,
writers, teachers or artists, we could gain our own independence and at the
same time work for the good of our fellow countrymen. All these ways now
stand open to us and there are others too in which we could be independent.
But we do not desire them, because we would only be working for
ourselves, and not for our people.
What could we do for them if we were apothecaries' assistants, book-
keepers, telegraph operators, clerks in an office or something of that kind?
Those spheres of activity do not attract us. We want to lead full rich lives.
You know the Government, through the Director of Education, is planning
to erect schools for native girls; and by way of example a domestic school
for the daughters of the nobles.
When we heard of this plan last year from the Director himself, his wife
asked me if I would teach in this last school. I answered that I took much
interest in the plan, but that the undertaking would be too great for me,
because I had no training and would not be capable of filling such a
position.
Mevrouw said that her husband wanted me just as I was; to help to lead the
young hearts and to form the young characters, I must go among the
children as an elder sister, and be an example to them. I felt highly
honoured at the suggestion, but unfitted for the task as I was; I had no right
to undertake it. Mevrouw said that if I really must have some preparation,
then I could go for a little while to the normal school at Batavia, there
would be no difficulty about that, it was only a question of my own wishes.
That my Father approved of this suggestion, you know already. When I
went to Batavia I saw the Directress of the Girls' High School and she said
that she would do everything in her power to help me. This cordiality from

one who was almost a stranger, was very encouraging. Unsought and
unexpected, this offer of assistance was simply thrown into my lap. I was in
the clouds and thought that my departure for Batavia was only a question of
weeks, or at most, of months.
I have already told you that we are not rich; though Father has a large
income, at the same time, his expenditures are great, so that we have only
enough to live quietly and to give our boys (boys must be helped before
everything) to give the boys good educations.
I had also thought of the financial difficulties, and had made a plan so that
the expense of my studies would not be too great a burden. It would cost
my father twelve hundred florins for one year, a whole month's income, and
no small sum for a household as large as ours; so my thoughts turned
towards the medical school at Batavia, tuition in medicine is free, at least
for boys (there have never been any women medical students). One can
study medicine at the expense of the country. The students receive free
lodging, a monthly allowance to cover cost of food and clothing, and there
is free medical attendance.
When I was in Batavia I asked the Director of Education to which
department the school of medicine belonged, and if girls would be admitted
to it. Dr. A. had nothing against that, but naturally girls would be special
students. My idea was to ask the Government to admit me upon the same
footing as the men students. For every one with any brains at all can see
how useful a woman doctor would be, especially among the women of the
people, who usually would rather die than be touched by a strange man.
If the chief of the department of Education would support my petition there
is no doubt but that the government would receive it favourably. I have
already thought much about the medical profession, the length of time
required for study alone disconcerts me. For one who is not yet twenty,
seven years of study does not seem so long; but for one who has already
passed that age, it is very long. And then as a full grown girl to have to sit in
the beginning day after day, between boys of from thirteen to eighteen, and
to be the only woman in a circle of men is not pleasant. But these are minor
difficulties, which I could force myself to overcome.

There is still something else; Father and my friends are against it, though
fortunately not unconditionally. Father objects because I should be the only
girl among all those men and boys, such a thing would be unheard of here
—and my friends object because they are afraid that I would not have the
necessary nerve to go through with the studies.
Medicine is certainly a splendid calling, but not a profession for every one;
a strong will and perseverance are not enough, nerves of steel are also a
necessity. That is what worries my friends, so that they give me no peace.
Father thinks that teaching would be the best profession for me, as do also
my friends in Batavia. They think that would be a suitable, fine work for
me, where I could spread my ideas broadcast among the younger
generation, the women and mothers of the future. As a teacher, even of a
little circle, there would be a direct influence exerted upon that little circle,
which would in time, widen and spread out so that many would follow my
example.
You know my love for literature; it is one of my dreams to be able to
accomplish something there. It is true one cannot serve two masters at the
same time, but I see no reason why if I were a teacher, after being busy with
the children all day, I could not work at literature at night. I want to do only
one thing at a time and do that well. Entre ces deux mon coeur balance! As
a doctor or something else, perhaps I should not have the opportunity to do
that other work of which I am so fond, scribbling with my pen.
But teaching, the bringing up of children, is something so earnest and
sacred in itself, that I should never be at peace if I attempted it, and felt
myself unable to do it well.
As a teacher of the domestic school, I should be with the children the whole
day, even in the evening and at night I should not be wholly free, because
the children would be under my care. Such a post would bring with it heavy
responsibilities and duties. Perhaps you think I am exaggerating the
difficulties and responsibilities; but I cannot look upon it in any other way.
To me it would be a crime to devote myself to the bringing up of children,
future carriers of civilization to the race, and not to be fitted for that great
task, which is so high and holy in my eyes.

What do you desire for me, Stella? Which road would you most gladly see
me started upon? Tell me honestly and frankly what you really think. You
have already shown yourself a good true friend; here is another opportunity.
There is still another profession open to us. A missionary doctor, personally
unknown to us, but of good name and established reputation, has heard
much of us from our friends and has offered of his own accord, to train us,
free of cost, to be accoucheuses.
You will certainly have heard of the great native assembly in
Modjowarno[2] in the residency of Soerabaja? The name of this missionary
doctor is known in connection with "Work of civilization in India," and
with the exhibition of women's work. You must know too that there is a
crying need for mid-wives here in India. Every year in Java and the whole
of Netherland-India, about twenty thousand women die in child-birth, and
there are on an average thirty thousand still-born children; all from lack of
intelligent care. In that direction there certainly stretches out before us a
broad field of usefulness where we could be a blessing to our sisters.
We take a great interest in this cause, but it would be an untruth if we said
that it was one of our dreams to be accoucheuses. But it would be one
thousand times better to be mid-wives than to be dependent, held to narrow
household cares through a compulsory marriage.
We have father's permission to go to Modjowarno and study to be
accoucheuses when all other doors to independence shall have been closed
to us. He is strongly opposed to a work of personal service; he thinks that
kind of work would be degrading to our aristocratic hands. Our friends, at
first, deplored the idea too, but they put their objections on such a noble,
such a high plane! They thought that it would be hard for us because we had
other dreams and ambitions. But would our desire to lighten the way and to
be examples to others be reached in this manner? Even in civilized Europe,
the calling of mid-wife is looked down upon, more or less. Would India
with all its ceremony and form be able to appreciate the beauty of the work?
People here would only see its humbleness; for everything that does not
shine, is looked upon as of no worth by my poor countrymen. You
understand very well that we personally would be indifferent to the

lowliness of our calling; but the effect which that would have, should not be
a matter of indifference to us.
If we want to break the path to freedom and independence for the Javanese
woman, we must set a practical example. And a calling that is looked down
upon and considered degrading would not find a following, and we want
others to follow in our footsteps. Our example then must be something that
compels respect and inspires emulation. We have not only our own wishes
to consider, we must reckon with the prejudices and the character of the
people whom we wish to enlighten.
Lately in Holland, and especially at the Hague, there has been a growing
movement of interest in Indian art. The Association of "The East and West,"
an offspring of the Exposition of Woman's work of which you must know,
has as one of its chief purposes, the encouragement of things Indian. There
is a special division for art, composed entirely of artists of reputation.
They are planning to send an artist to India to help the cause of Indian Art
in general, but especially in its practical application, and to protect it from
the strange influences, above all those imported from Europe, which would
contaminate its true character.
I have already told you that Roekmini has a great love for painting, and
certainly some talent in that direction, and it is her desire to become a
painter. Of course study in Europe would be necessary and that alas, is
unattainable for her. Perhaps through our own efforts, we may be able to
help little sister to realize her dream. Could we not get into communication
with "East and West" and might not my sister by the help of that association
be enabled to study drawing and painting at the Art academy at the Hague?
Later she could return to Java and dedicate herself wholly to the art of her
own country.
If all our plans should suffer ship-wreck, then Roekmini will fit herself to
be an accoucheuse. She will become either an accoucheuse or a painter, but
whichever she does she will do well. In either case she should study in
Europe. In Holland she could take a full course in obstetrics and could be of
great service then to the future mothers of her land.

The doctors here could only train her to be a mid-wife, who works under
the direction of a doctor. To our indolent people with their exalted ideas, it
would make a great difference whether an accoucheuse had been trained
here or in Europe. With a European diploma, she would not be looked upon
as degraded so much by her work and might still serve as an example, and
as a light to be followed. We are going to apply for an appropriation from
the government to pay for her education in Holland. We hope for the
assistance of Prof. Hector Treub in Amsterdam, and of Dr. Stratz in the
Hague, men who have already broken their lances many times for the cause
of obstetrics in India. Through ignorance of this science, thousands of lives
are needlessly sacrificed every year. In the general assembly also, attention
was called to this cause by Van Kol. It is said that Kamerlid[3] is coming to
India; I hope to see him and to have an opportunity to speak with him; my
brother knows him very well.
The Government here in India has already taken steps toward the
improvement of these sad conditions, of which I have spoken. In Java all
doctors who wish to charge themselves with the training of mid-wives
receive a monthly subsidy from the Government. The prospective mid-
wives receive an allowance during their apprenticeship to cover the cost of
board and other necessities, and after they have passed their examinations
they are also paid by the Government.
After she had completed her studies in Europe, sister Roekmini would open
a clinic in Java. There is only one fault to be found with the teachings of the
doctors that we have here; that is obscurity, because it is impossible for the
teachers to make themselves clearly understood by the students, when they
speak different languages. Almost without exception, the doctors here have
little or no command of our language. Malay and usually very much broken
Malay at that, is the language which the doctors use towards the people.
Hardly a single doctor speaks Javanese, and so very few of the Javanese
people understand and speak Malay. The difficulties would fall away if
some one with a thorough knowledge of the native language would
undertake the task of training. Roekmini's birth will be of great help to her
in this, for the natives are very loyal to their nobles.
On the 24th of October, just two weeks after the interruption of this letter I
come back to it again. My card, sent meanwhile, will have told you of the

sad state in which we have been; happily that is now past.
As you know already, Roekmini has been dangerously ill; twice her life
seemed to hang upon a single thread. Now thank God, she is on the road to
recovery and grows each day a little stronger. Today she has been out of
doors.
I cannot tell you how happy and thankful we are that everything has gone
so well with her. Sister Kardinah, too, is on her feet again. She can now take
little walks and her poor thin cheeks are beginning to fill out. We have
certainly had our share of suffering.
It is now so unhealthy everywhere on account of the drought. Poor country
—so much hangs over you besides sickness. Many sawahs over the whole
country have been destroyed by the great drought. The suffering is worse in
the neighbouring town of Grobogan and we look toward Demak with fear
and anguish; there, twenty-six thousand sawahs have already been
destroyed and cholera is raging. The West Winds will soon come that drown
the land every year. Poor country! that after the East Winds, dries up and
perishes from drought, and after the West Winds, is drowned with floods.
But I shall write no more about this misery, but only tell you what has
happened during the last fourteen days.
Sister Kardinah also wishes to become a teacher, and has chosen as her
specialty domestic science and cooking. Our plan is to remain together
always and to work side by side for our common goal; the education of our
people.
If fate is propitious we shall open a school, in which instruction will be
given along broader lines than mere book education; it will include lessons
in handiwork, household arts and kindred subjects, and there will also be
classes in wood-carving and painting, and in mid-wifery. But a course in
domestic science can only be taken in Holland; there is no opportunity here.
Kleintje's forte is really music and her dearest dream was and still is, to
become a musician, but that is absolutely impossible for her; so my little
maid has resigned herself to the inevitable.
She is so eager to work for our people, and a teacher of the household arts
could do a tremendous amount of good. More and more the Government

realizes what a great advantage it would be to the people and their rulers, if
they could learn economy.
We may appeal to the Government on behalf of Kleintje, and asked that she
be placed at a school where she could be qualified to teach domestic
economy. My little sister wishes to undertake the great task of teaching the
women and future mothers of Java economy and frugality.
Lately the Government has shown that it wishes to place a premium upon
education and enlightenment in its magistrates; this has been evinced by the
latest regents'[4] appointments. According to custom, regents have been
appointed by the law of heredity, from father to son, and if there is no son
available, then some near relative of the last regent is appointed. It has
never happened before that the new regent was no connection at all; but the
two newly appointed men are progressive and enlightened and have been
educated in Europe.
It is evident that the Government is in earnest in its endeavour to civilize
and educate the people of Java, and especially the classes from which the
Government servants are recruited.
The Heer Abendanon has said that there can be no argument against the
statement that the intellectual awakening of the native people cannot
progress appreciably as long as the woman is left behind in the forward
march. The education of woman has always been an important factor in
civilization.
In the last fifteen years, the Government of Netherland-India has sent four
young Javanese to Holland at its own expense, to be educated there as
teachers so that they may come back later to work for the good of their
fellow countrymen. The Government realized that their work would have
better results if they received their educations abroad. But the desire to do
this did not come of itself to these men; it was suggested by those who had
the awakening of India at heart.
With us it is different. In us the impulse, the longing to do something for
our people was born in our own hearts, from deeply rooted conviction, and
came through suffering, and through sympathy for the suffering of others.

We are only waiting for Father's permission now. Forgive a father, Stella,
that he hesitates to give his children as hostages to an uncertain future. As
innovators, as pioneers, we must stand alone, combat and overcome
obstacles; our way will lead through much suffering and discouragement, it
is certain. And what parents would wish to see their children zealous for
suffering? What parents willingly see their children voluntarily dedicate
themselves to lives of struggle and disappointment?
I do not know that I should go to Holland to study now, even if the
opportunity were offered me, though to go has always been one of my
greatest desires. Last year when it was suggested that I study at home I set
myself against the proposition with all my might. If I studied at all, I
wanted to study properly, and I could only do that in Holland or at Batavia.
And as Holland was beyond my reach, my head was set upon Batavia.
I did not think I could study well at home, because I could not devote my
whole time to my books. At my time of life there would be too many other
claims upon me. Household and social duties would keep me too much
from my work, it would be impossible to eliminate them if I remained at
home. That was last year when Father was well and strong; now Father is
that no longer alas!
Forgive a daughter, Stella, if once when she might have had the opportunity
to fulfil her heart's wish, a wish upon which the future well-being of many
others also depended, she held back, because she had not the heart to
separate from a father who had given her love and care her whole life long
and whose feeble health now demanded more than ever the care and
affection which she alone could give.
Stella, I am a child, I am a daughter, not a woman alone, who can give
herself wholly, and dedicate herself to a great and beautiful work. I am also
a child bound by the bonds of tenderest love and gratitude to an old grey
father, who has grown old and grey through care for his children. Of these
children perhaps I am dearest.
Stella, you who know my great love for him, and next to that my love for
what I regard as our calling, who know the strength of my affection for my
sisters, will be able to understand what a hard conflict there is in store for
me. I must be separated from my sisters, away from the work that I would

do, or separated from Father, united with my sisters, and giving my all to
our calling.
Father is weak now, needs care, and my first duty is to him. Oh Stella, I
should never have a moment's peace if I carried on my own work far away
from Father, knowing that he was suffering and needed me.
The work which we would do is noble. It will not be only for the present
but for all time. Still I should never be able to answer to my own conscience
if I should neglect my old, grey father for any cause whatever. He has the
first right to me.
One of the precepts which I wish to inculcate is this: honour every living
creature, respects their rights, their feelings; and even when it seems
necessary, shrink from causing the least suffering to another. Should I be
able to teach others what I myself neglected in practice?
I must never forsake my duty as a child, but neither must I forsake the duty
which I owe to myself, for it is not my own happiness that depends upon its
realization but great good to others. The problem now is to try and
harmonize as far as possible these two duties which are diametrically
opposed to each other. The only solution seemed to be to find some way by
which I could stay with Father, and also go on with my studies.
I am going to study here at home, and fit myself for the profession of
teaching, just as well as one can be fitted by self-study, when it is supported
by a strong will, and perseverance.
I had already thought of this plan, but Mevrouw Abendanon gave it the
impetus which pushed it forward, when she suggested some time ago that,
without waiting for further arbitraments of capricious fate, we three go
ahead and study here at home.
We have had a governess for two months; in her we have found a charming
and affectionate friend. She is still very young, a girl of strong character
who has left her family in the Fatherland and come here to earn her daily
bread.
It is only unfortunate that this miserable sickness has come; otherwise we
should be getting along famously. Naturally all this time I have not been

able to look at a book. Annie Glazer, that is our teacher's name, has
engagements which take her on some days, to another family here. But as
soon as she can arrange it, she will give her entire time to us or to me alone
most probably, for my poor sisters must not have anything in their hands,
and above all in their heads, just now. They feel very miserable under the
enforced idleness, but hands and heads are still weak.
What do you think about all of these high flying plans? If only you do not
say, "Poor thing, you are trying to fly too high," I shall be satisfied. Do you
know what I have noticed among our friends? That they have too high an
opinion of us. They ascribe to us qualities and abilities which we do not
possess. Sometimes we have to laugh at their enthusiasm. The saying that
"Love is blind" is here applicable. You should only hear some of the things
of which they think us capable. We feel our own limitations deeply,
whenever our friends set us so in the sun. We feel small, but we feel grateful
too for the love of which it speaks. One friend would be glad to see me
work with my pen, for our people. I must found a journal devoted to their
needs, and must be its editor, or I must become a writer on the foremost
daily newspaper of India and write articles, by which those who are now
fast sleeping will be frightened wide awake! Had I no reason for my
assertion that "Love is blind"?
And, now I must think of parting from my sisters, the idea is frightful to
them, and it is no less so to me. If they are successful in getting that for
which they are asking they will be far from us in a strange land. It is
fortunate that they have a brother there, who even as I, loves the sisters
from his soul. This brother is full of enthusiasm and sympathy for our
ideals, for in them he finds an echo of his own. We have made a compact
with him, that when he has completed his studies, he will come back to us
and we will work together.
It is an inspiration to us that he should share in the ideals of his sisters, it
lifts us up, draws us forward, just as does the great sympathy and
understanding which you have for us. There is still another young man,
European, who only knows us through his mother, but who sympathizes
with our cause and takes a lively interest in it. The sympathy and
understanding of friends even when we do not know them personally, is a

great support to us. We need this support very much. You will always give
me yours. Will you not, Stella?

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

XXVII
November 20th, 1901.[1]
One should never promise anything, even when it depends entirely upon
oneself, because one can never tell beforehand what will happen. Never
mind how honestly the promise is made, and how earnestly one desires to
keep it, unforeseen circumstances may arise, which make its fulfillment
impossible. There is a belief among us Javanese, that those who break a
promise will be visited by a poisonous serpent. The serpent comes to
remind them of their promise, if they do not quickly fulfill it, they will be
visited by another more venomous serpent, whose bite is deadly. If they
delay longer, misfortune will surely overtake them. The serpent only lives
upon the promises of holy spirits, as the souls of the righteous who are dead
are nourished by flowers, perfume and incense. The serpent is sent by the
departed souls of the righteous to remind men of their forgotten promises.
But why do I tell you of our Javanese beliefs? Forgive me, when there is so
much besides that I want to tell you.
I deserve a fine scolding for my long delay in writing; in large measure, it
was due to indolence. I am not satisfied with myself! What makes me so
lazy and restless? I do not understand it. I am not definitely sick, but at the
same time I am far from well. I am dull, weary and uneasy; nonsense—
hypochondria—there! I must seize hold of myself; it is work that I need—
work that my heart is in. And now comes my stupidity; because I cannot
work at that which I would, I turn with distaste from all other forms of toil.
That is weakness, I know. But I could stand a whole avalanche of work
better than these unbearable trivialities with which my time is filled.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

XXVIII
November 29, 1901.[1]
I fear that it made you both sad to read my last letter, and it will certainly
please you now to learn that though there is no change in outward
conditions, there is a change in us. It is no longer night in our souls; a great
calm has descended upon us. And through darkness and mist we see the
splendid light break, which beckons us with friendly hands. It is the light of
our ideal! We know now that we shall never be able to cease from striving;
it has grown to be part of our being—of our very existence. It is not only
today or yesterday that we have felt and lived for our cause! We should
have to be given new hearts, new brains, and new blood would have to be
put into our veins before it would be possible for us to live for anything
else.
I have thought and experienced all that you wrote me. Long ago, in the very
beginning of our close association, I said many times to the sisters, I begged
and implored them, to tear themselves loose from me, and not to allow
themselves to depend so wholly upon me.
For who am I, presumptuous fool, to calmly lead and allow my little sisters
to follow me? I am going on strange unknown ways, which will lead toward
heaven, but must first take me down into hell. This last, much more easily
than the first. Hell is near, and the way to it is lighted: but heaven is so far
off and difficult to find.
"Yes," say my sisters, "But neither you nor any one else, could sow the
seeds of ideas in us, so that they would bear fruit, unless the soil were suited
to them. We are going together whether it be to heaven or to hell." My
beautiful faithful little souls; no, they have learned nothing from me, for I
have always been their pupil. Oh, they have taught me much.
We are one in ideas and feelings, everything has combined to make us one.
We have been together all our lives; though you can take away the long

years that we lived together but outwardly and count only these last
intimate years.
Souls that have dwelt together for only one moment in great sympathy, can
never wholly forget one another. But we have dwelt together in complete
harmony for years. The years have added to the bond ten-fold.
We see the same things, hear the same things, day after day, and talk over
everything with one another. We take delight in the same things, read books,
magazines and newspapers together—discuss what we have read, and
exchange opinions and ideas. Our parents see our intimacy with pleasure
and encourage in every way. They are so pleased with the three-in-one idea
that they are sometimes unjust to those outside, for the triple bond must
come before everything else.
Our protectors as you know may marry us to whomsoever they will. The
only circumstances in which they may not compel our obedience, is when
the candidate for our hand is of a rank inferior to our own. Parents may not
compel their daughters to marry a man who is beneath them in station. That
is our only weapon against their arbitrary will.
The prospective bridegroom has only to go with the father or other male
relative to the Panghoeloe[2] or some one else of the kind, and the wedding
is over. The girl may know nothing whatever about it at the time.
Mother knew a woman, who refused to marry. She said she had rather die
than marry the man her parents had chosen for her. Heaven was merciful,
three months before the date set for the wedding the cholera took her away.
Had she lived, no one would have been disturbed in the least by her refusal.
She would have been married out of hand despite her protests.
There is nothing new under the sun; long ago in old times there were
rebellious daughters too. It has always been preached to us that it was our
duty to belong blindly to our parents. At the same time it has happened that
when a young woman, submissive to their decree, was married, and
afterwards unhappy, they would make sport of her and say: "Foolish one,
why then did you marry? When you were married, you were willing, you
wished to follow your husband; you must not complain now."

When I received your letter, we were about to go to a wedding. It is not
customary for young girls to go to weddings and sit among the wedding
guests, but Mamma graciously gave us her consent. If the bride's mother, an
old friend of ours, had not pressed us to honour her with our presence at the
great feast, we would have gladly stayed away. Before we started from our
house, we saw the retinue of the bridegroom going toward the mosque;
there was a downpour of rain, and the carriage in which the bridegroom sat
was closed, as were the other carriages which followed it. Gold-striped
banners were streaming over the aloen-aloen.[3] It was a melancholy-
looking train; we were depressed by it. Indeed, it made us think of a funeral
procession.
When we came to the home of the bride, we found her sitting in front of the
quade (canopy) waiting for the bridegroom. Father went with us, too.
We sat on the ground close by the door; the eldest between the two little
sisters. Incense and the perfume of flowers filled the room. Gamelan music,
and the soft buzzing of voices reached us from outside. Gamelan broke into
a song of welcome; the bridegroom was coming.
Two women seized the bride by the arms, lifted her up, and led her to meet
the bridegroom, who was also being led toward her by two persons. After a
few steps, they are opposite each other and bride and bridegroom give, each
one to the other, a rolled-up sirrih[4] leaf. A few steps nearer and both sink
to the ground. The bride prostrates herself on her knees before him, as a
symbol of her subjection to the man. Flat before him, she makes a
respectful sembah, and humbly kisses his foot! Again, a submissive
sembah, and both rise and go hand in hand and seat themselves under the
canopy.
"Joe, Joe," whispered Kleintje to me with dancing eyes and a roguish twist
to her mouth. "He! I should go wild, if I could only see a bridal pair come
smiling to meet each other and hand the sirrih leaf with eyes sparkling with
joy. Of course, that would have to be among the younger generation—a
bridal pair who had known each other beforehand. Would not that be fine—
eh, Joe? Will it ever happen? I should go crazy with delight, if I could ever
see it."

"It will come," I said mechanically, and smiled; but in that room, I felt as
though my heart were being pierced with a dagger; and there at my side,
with face beaming and dancing eyes, sat my sister.
A few days ago I opened a book by chance, it happened to be Multatuli, and
the first thing I read was "Thugater." I still seem to see the words before my
eyes: "Father said to her, that to know, and to understand, and to desire, was
a sin for a girl."
Certainly the great, genial writer had little idea when he wrote that, what a
deep impression it would make some day upon one of the daughters of the
people whom he loved, and for whose welfare he sacrificed so much.
There was a woman of the people who became wife number two of a native
official. The first wife, who was not quite right in her head, after a little
went away from him, leaving behind a whole troop of children. Number
two became the official wife and was a painstaking, loving mother to her
step-children; she was very diligent and worked hard to save something
from the income of her husband, so that later they would be able to educate
his children. And it was thanks to her that the sons turned out so well. Now
I come to the thanks. Once when her husband had gone to the city he came
back home late at night, and called his wife outside. A guest had come with
him for whom she must care, and make ready a room. The guest was a
young woman, and when her husband told her that the guest was his wife
and that she, his older wife, must thenceforth share everything with her, at
first she was stunned, for she did not understand. She only stood and looked
at him. But when the frightful truth penetrated to her brain, she sank
without a single word to the ground. When she came to herself again, she
rose to her feet, and asked, standing, for a writing of divorcement from her
husband. At first he did not wish to understand her, but she persisted till at
last he yielded and gave her the requested paper.
That very night she went out of the house on foot through fields and forests,
to her parents' house in the city. How she got there she did not know. When
she could think again, she was with her family and they told her that she
had been ill for a long time.
Later, after she had recovered, she looked at the letter which she had forced
from her husband on that terrible night, and saw that she was really not

divorced at all. The letter merely contained her description and the
information that she had run away from him.
He had no idea in the world of giving her back her freedom. Later she
became reconciled to him. The other wife left the house and went to live in
another dwelling, while she resumed her old rule of the household. On that
frightful night, she had sworn a solemn oath, she swallowed dust, and
vowed never, never, to raise her hand to deprive another of her rights. She
had done it herself ignorantly as a child; when she was fourteen years of
age, her parents had married her to her husband. She did not know what she
was doing, she belonged only to her parents, who used often to beat her at
their pleasure. She knew now what a hell pain it was to be pressed from the
side of a husband by another. She has remained true to her oath.
Not long ago her husband married a niece to some one who already had a
wife; she defied the wrath of her husband and refused persistently to have
anything to do with the wedding preparations, and the wedding was not
held in her house.
We know her very well, and have great respect for her. She has made
herself what she is by her own efforts, she has worked hard and improved
herself, though she has never had an opportunity to study.
She has taught herself to read, and has worked her way through several
books with profit.
We are sometimes astonished at her conversation, the result of deep
thinking, and also of a sound understanding. She is truly an unusual woman
(it would be well if there were more like her) who has had neither education
nor opportunities, but who thinks and feels as we because she has known
suffering.
Her history is not unique; there are many like it. But where shall I end if I
once begin to tell you of the misery of the native women? Every one whose
eyes are not blind and whose ears are not deaf, knows what goes on in our
world. Pluck the heart from our bodies and the brains from our head if you
wish to change us.
Long before you quoted from Zangwill's "Dreams of the Ghetto" to me
Kleintje said almost the same thing, though of course in different words. We

were eating tarts, or something of the kind, when little sister came running
up and wished to have some too. There was no clean plate for her, and
Kardinah said, "Eat off Joe's plate and then you will become clever like
her," whereupon Kleintje said solemnly, "No, I will not do it; I want to
remain stupid; to be clever is not to be happy—not for every one. It is a
misfortune to be able to think and not to be able to act; to be able to know,
to feel and to wish, and not to be free. I want to be only stupid."
Once when I was distraught with trouble, and leaned against the wall
motionless, with wide open eyes that saw nothing, but only stared at the
light, a cry of sorrow smote my ears and brought me back to a sense of
reality. Father leaned over me, his arms were around me, though his face
was turned away. "Do not give way like that, Ni. Have patience." Oh, my
father, why have you not listened to the voice of your own heart; why have
you heeded the voice of the world?
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.
[2] Servant of religion, in charge of a mosque.
[3] Grounds in front of a Regent's palace. Usually square in shape and
surrounded by trees, sometimes with a group of trees in the center.
[4] Sirrih, the leaf of a vine. A paste composed of lime gamlier and betel nut is
spread upon this and eaten by the Javanese women. It is customary for bride and
bridegroom to present it to each other at weddings. The custom is of ancient
origin.

XXIX
December 31st, 1901.[1]
We do not want to sail any longer upon a weak ship, something must be
done for this great, this unhappy cause. We should be satisfied if only the
attention of the intelligent world were fastened upon it. Many times have I
talked with women, both with those of the nobles and those of the people,
about the idea of an independent, free, self-supporting girl, who could earn
her own living; and from each one comes the answer, "There must be some
one who sets the example."
We are convinced that if one has but the courage to begin, many will follow
her. There must always be a beginning. One must go first to show the way,
and the example must be good; each one waits for the other; no one dares to
be first. The parents too wait for one another to see which one will have the
moral courage to allow a daughter to become independent and self
supporting—to stand by herself.
We know a Regent's daughter, our own age, who is also full of enthusiasm
for the idea of freedom. She is crazy to study; she speaks excellent Dutch,
and has read a great deal. She is the daughter of the Regent of Koetoardjo.
There are two great girls, charming children; we are very fond of them. I
know from a teacher, an acquaintance of ours, that the older girl is crazy to
study. She has told me herself that she is very anxious to go to Europe. The
second sister also is a dear, clever child. A few years ago they were at our
house on a visit. When they first came, they began to draw and paint with
us, and now the younger one paints very well. Their father has a great
respect for an educated woman. We know another one of his daughters, who
is married; she speaks no Dutch, but she has gone further than the others.
She has a great admiration for the free, independent European woman; she
would think it ideal if we could have the same conditions in our native
world.
Another Regent's daughter has been here; she is a Sundanese girl; she does
not speak a word of Javanese, but she was brought up with Europeans, so

we talked in Dutch.
The first question that she asked me was, "How many mothers have you?" I
turned to her in pained astonishment, and she went on (do not be shocked)
"You know that I have fifty-three mothers and there are eighty-three of us. I
do not know the majority of my brothers and sisters. I am the youngest, and
never knew my father; he died before I was born."
Is not that deeply, deeply sad? In the Preanger, girls of noble birth are free
to choose their own husbands, and many of them even know the man to
whom they are betrothed. The young people meet one another, and become
engaged after the European manner. Blessed land—and yet—!
There is a girl, a grand-daughter of a Regent, (her parents are dead) who has
had a splendid bringing up, and if her teacher is a good judge, must be a
wonder of learning. She plays the piano well, etc. She became engaged after
the European manner and married some one, who had many wives, and a
whole troop of children; some of them full grown. I knew one of her step-
daughters, a charming little woman who speaks Dutch and is the mother of
a two year old child. She was seventeen years old, a year or two younger
than her step-mother. She told me that she chose her husband herself and
was very happy.

The idea of publishing all that I think and feel about conditions among our
Mohammedan women, has been with me for a long time. I thought of
putting it into a book, in the form of letters between two regents' daughters
—a Sundanese and a Javanese. Already I have written several letters, but I
shall not go on with it at present. It will be perhaps some years before I can
finish it, but I shall not give up the idea. That too was suggested by
Mijnheer. The great difficulty is that father would not allow me to publish
such a book. "It is good for you to be versed in the Dutch language," says
Father, "but you must not make that an excuse for telling your inmost
thoughts."
We girls must have no ideas, we have but to think that everything is good as
we find it, and to say "yes" and "amen" to everything.

I was asked a few years ago, by a Dutch authoress of reputation, editor of a
Woman's Journal, with whom I correspond, and whom I like very much, for
permission to publish a letter in which I had touched upon these questions.
The publication of private opinions such as mine, would be good for the
cause, she thought. She would have kept my identity a secret, name,
dwelling place, everything would have been concealed. Only those places
would have been mentioned, wherein I allude to certain peculiar customs of
my country. The letter was sent back to Java, so that it could be shown to
Father. He said that it must not be published; "later perhaps." I knew what
that "Later" meant. It meant that when I should have become harmless, by
having the Raden Adjeng changed to Raden Ajoe.
Lately we had the same thing over again. Mevrouw Ter Horst, founder and
editor of the Indian Woman's Journal, The Echo, sent me her paper. She
knows personally much about the life of the native woman, and has great
sympathy for the well born girls in the Vorstenlanden[2] who are given away
like so many presents. She wanted me to begin a series of articles, "Talks
between two Regents' daughters." Secrecy, should it be necessary, was
absolutely assured with her. She also thinks that it would be a good idea to
write sketches of the life around us. I gave the letter to Father, hoping for
his permission, which was again denied. I must not tell my ideas too early,
always it is "Later."
The Heer Boes, of Probolingo, wrote to Father and asked if I might write
some articles for his paper, De Nederlandsche Taal, a periodical for natives.
The Heer Boes asked for a reply, and sent me a list of subjects that he
would like to have treated, such as, "Native Education for Girls"—"Native
Art," "Useful Native Institutions."
At that time we had gone to Batavia. So many things came up after that I
could not write, I was in such trouble that my pen refused to go. And I
hoped that each day would be better than the one that had gone before. But
the next day would be just the same, and I would tear up what I had tried to
write; that was stupid. But I was beside myself with waiting and delay. I
was in despair. I was to be allowed to write only nonsense, earnest things I
must not touch upon.

Then I began to think that if I did write upon serious subjects, 1 should have
the whole native world against me; if I became a teacher, the people would
not trust their children to me. I should be called crazy. The idea of serving
our cause with my pen is so dear to me, and yet picture to yourself a school
without children, a teacher without pupils!
But we have not gone as far as that. We must have education first. For that,
we must first obtain Father's permission, and then we have to present our
petition to the Governor General.
We must not count too much upon the success of our suit. And if it should
fail, O God, what then? There remains only one thing for us, to become
accoucheuses; we should then have to give up our hope of being examples
and of lighting the way for others, for then we could be of service only to a
few. But we think that would be far better than just to be book-keepers,
apothecaries' apprentices, or something of that kind. Work in which our
lives should be so barren, so empty, we should be living only for ourselves,
and we want to live for the good of society as a whole.
I have information about the Government school of Obstetrics at
Amsterdam, where one can be educated for that profession absolutely free
of charge. We should have to have the help of Prof. Hector Treub.
The course lasts two years. How should we be able to get to Europe? We do
not know. Some way must be found.
We will not go into that, until we have exhausted every means in our power
towards the carrying out of our other plans.
Alas, if we could but get into communication with our own educated young
men, men like Abdulli Rivai and others, and win their sympathy for our
cause. When will the time come when boys and girls, men and women shall
look upon one another as equal human beings, as comrades? As it is now—
Bah! how we women are degraded at every turn, again and again.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.
[2] Vorstenlanden (Princes' countries) name given by the Hollanders to the
central province of Java comprising the Residences of Soerakarta and
Djokjakarta. Nominally it is a principality and is divided between two native
princes, the Soeshoeman of Soerakarta and the Sultan of Djokjakaarta, whose
power has been so reduced by the concessions which they have been forced to

make to the Dutch Government that only its shadow remains. This semblance of
power is encouraged by the Hollanders for diplomatic reasons, though the Sultan
is virtually a prisoner in his own palace.
Soerakarta and Djokjakarta form the last remnant of the ancient Hindu kingdom
of Mataram to which originally the name Java was given.

XXX
January 3rd, 1902.[1]
When we were in Samarang, our eldest sister came over to see us. "Sister,
sister," was all that she said, when she had seen me. The arms that were
thrown around me trembled, and her eyes were rilled with tears. We were
silent; we understood each other. At last we have found our sister.
At last, after years, we have gained her understanding and respect. That
gives us new courage, because at first, she was very conservative, and was
opposed violently to every innovation.

Formerly it was not the custom to send children to school. Now it is an
everyday occurrence; but when one has a little matter of twenty-five
children, can one educate them all?
The question is never raised, that one has not the right to awaken life when
one cannot maintain life. Alas, how simple I am!

I thought to myself that, if I did something terrible, which would call down
universal scorn upon my head; if every one passed me by, and I were
showered with insults, would Father and would Mother turn away from me?
No, they would not. I should still be their child, and have a place in their
hearts. All the time we were sitting quietly here in our room, sewing on
Kleintje's clothes. She will have nothing that a strange hand has touched.
We must do everything for her ourselves. The door opened a little way and
Father came from behind it to stroke the rebellious head that surged with so
many unruly thoughts.

After four weeks, sister will be with us no longer. "You will all miss me
very much; I know it," she said, "In everything always, we three have been
together."
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

February 15, 1902.
When some one does something unkind to me, it makes my blood boil, I
grow very angry, but afterwards something like joy comes to me. I am glad
that it is the other person who has injured me and not I that have hurt him;
for then it is I that should be base, and if I were troubled, it would be
because I had been guilty and injured another unjustly.
Forgive me for having taken so long to write. After the departure of our
darling, our heart and soul sister, I could not write.
Sister went from here to her new home on the 31st of January. God grant,
that our little girl may be as happy as it is possible for a young, pure and
innocent creature to be in this world. You know how we three have always
clung together and that she has been our darling, because she is not strong,
and needed our care. Before her marriage, we thought so much about the
coming separation; but when the great blow fell, we felt nothing. We were
so dismally calm, we were not capable of thought. We saw her go with dry
eyes.
Annie Glazer, our companion, who came on a visit, reminded us so much of
sister. One evening she played on the piano the pieces that sister had loved
most. And under the spell of her music the ice-crust melted from our hearts.
But with the warmth the pain too came back. Thank God, that we could feel
again. "Thank God, thank God!" we said, in spite of the pain. For those who
cannot feel pain are not capable, either, of feeling joy.
She has gone far away from us, and we cannot realize that she will be with
us no more—our Kleintje, our own little girl. We see her in everything, she
is with us always, only we cannot prattle aloud to her as formerly. We can
only do that in our thoughts. It is still so strange to us that we must take a
pen and paper to tell her something or other.
Kleintje, our little one, have you really gone away from us? Ah, dear sister,
be happy in your new life and shed happiness around you there, just as you
did here, when you bound all our hearts so fast to yours.

There is a young man with a very clever head, and at the same time of high
position, who does not know us personally, but who has much sympathy for
our struggle, and takes as much interest in it as if he were our own brother.
We correspond with him and, later, he is coming himself to make the
acquaintance of his sisters. He is so different from all the other men that we
know. I read once that the greatest thing in the world was a noble man's
heart. I understand now, truly a noble man's heart is the most priceless thing
in the world; it is so rare. We are happy because we have found such an one.
Sister Roekmini thinks of you often and has such a high opinion of you. She
is a fine child, so good, so faithful. You would like her I know, if you could
meet her; but you do know her already through me, do you not?
When I was sick, I tried to make her write to you, but she would not
because it might make you uneasy. When she was with me, and I was so
very sick, I thought to myself, it was very discouraging. Here is some one
who glows with enthusiasm for a noble cause; who longs to be strong and
brave, to overcome mountains, and see; now she lies helpless, powerless. If
some one picked her up and threw her into a well, she could make no
resistance because she would be wholly defenceless.

Now for the first time we understand what De Genestet[1] means in his
Terugblik:
What we wish and will and strive for
We pray high powers to grant.
For free man, you do not make yourself, and your own life
The eagle's flight is always fast enclosed,
The Almighty bends our will, our strength,
As the wind bends the wheat.
Still lay the ground out,
Plan your castles,
Mark the way you wish to travel.
The earth is wide and beautiful,
Choose your fate and seek your way,
By your own light.
God watches all the while,
And guides your foot-steps unaware.

And the same poet has given us much comfort in dark, difficult days.
[1] Peter Augustus De Genestet, noted poet. Born at Amsterdam in 1829 and
died at the age of thirty-one.

XXXI
February 18th, 1902.[1]
We know how to be merry and playful too, just to be young. The Sunday
after we got your dear letter we went down to the shore, and last Sunday as
well, we were there. We thought of you and we spoke of you. If you could
only have been with us, to look at the wild play of the waves, and at the
wonderful colours, which stretched before us at sun-set. There was a strong
wind, more than once our hair was blown down and we had to hold on to
our clothes to keep them from flying away. There was not only life in the
trees and in the water, there was life in the girls, who ran up and down
through the waves. We had such a delightful time! Our voices rose above
the noise of the water; we laughed aloud. Those were the teachers, the
stately princesses, who ran and sported in the waves with blown hair and
blown garments. We were so happy, so young, and so gay! Our attendants
stood by staring and gaping with wide open mouths.
The next morning we went again to the shore; the sea was no longer
blustering, the boundless stretch of water was calm. There were only little
ripples playing upon the surface, and the sun-light danced in and out among
them like brilliants.
We went into the sea, the ground was even, there were no pebbles, no sea-
weed, no slime; we went far out till the water reached our chins. The baboe
on the shore grew frightened, we could no longer understand her, but she
ran up and down like a mad woman, waving her arms and calling us back.
We only laughed at her distress. In the distance, she saw our heads sway
around as we danced, and our voices sounded over the water, raised in a
merry little song.
When we went back to the house, we took with us a lively feeling of
hunger, you may be sure. After we had eaten ravenously, Annie sat down to
the piano. Out of the fullness of her heart, she played a "Danklied" and we
sang with her. It was as though we had grown half elf. Now quickly to
work. In the back gallery our sewing stood ready; we sat at one table and

worked busily, but it was not only the fingers that hurried along, our
tongues were not idle and we were chattering and laughing and singing. In
the twinkling of an eye, the time had gone by, and we must sit again at the
table. At midday we took a little walk and wandered back to the shore.
After our walk, if it is not too dark, we usually drink tea in the garden,
among the shrubs and flowers, and under the blue sky, where after awhile, a
few stars and the pale gold moon come out. When we go in, we have music
or we read together. When Annie plays the piano, we sit by her, and sew or
write, for it is a delight to be able to work while there is music; the work
goes so easily.
Cooking is also on our program. We practise that every day after the rice
meal.
You and your husband must come to see us and rest here from that
oppressive Batavia. Can you not come now? We shall expect you. Then you
can amuse yourselves with our kind of life, which is so restful, so still, so
quiet and so peaceful. We will take care of you and we shall have the help
of the wind and the sea; and of the birds that greet us every morning with
their songs.
Come, dear friends, come, and find fresh life in our modest, still, little
place.

Of the wedding here, I shall only say that sister was a lovely bride.
She was married in wajang costume and looked beautiful. In the evening, at
the reception, she looked like a fairy princess from the "Thousand and One
Nights." She had on a golden crown, with a veil hanging down behind. It
was a new idea, but I have no doubt that it will be imitated.
Resident Sijthoff was much interested in seeing sister for the last time as a
young girl. He stayed through everything. He would have liked to press her
hand in farewell, but that might not be. He could only greet her with his
eyes.

As though carved in stone, she sat straight as an arrow, before the glittering
golden canopy. Her head was held proudly high, and her eyes were looking
straight ahead as though staring at the future that was so soon to be
unravelled before her. There were none of the usual tears, but even strangers
were affected. Only she and her two sisters were calm. Our emotions had
been lulled to sleep by the Gamelan music, by incense, and the perfume of
flowers. We were unmoved, we had looked forward to our parting as to
something frightful, so every one was astonished. We are still stared at very
hard, people are anxious to see how we hold up under the strain.
We talked to the Resident of our plans that very evening. Imagine our
speaking at the end of a crowded feast about a cause which is so earnest and
so sacred; but it was our only opportunity to talk to him alone, and we had
to make the most of it. Alone! all around us there were people, and still
more people. Surrounded by evergreens and flowers, with a shimmer of
silk, and the glitter of gold and jewels before our eyes, amid the buzzing of
a thousand voices, in a very sea of light, we sat there at midnight, with
champagne glasses in our hands, to speak of grave matters.
We were afraid that he would laugh at us or at least think us "silly." But we
did not let him frighten us. He talked first with me, and then with Roekmini,
separately; to make sure that our ideas were our own and not borrowed
from each other.
I have a request to make of you, an important one; when you see your
friend, Dr. Snouck-Hurgronje, ask him if, among the Mohammedans, there
are laws of majority, as among you. Or should I write myself to his
Excellency for enlightenment? There are some things I should be so glad to
know about the rights and duties, or, better still, the laws concerning the
Mohammedan wife and daughter. How strange for me to ask! It makes me
ashamed that we do not know ourselves. We know so bitterly little.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

XXXII
February 28, 1902.[1]
The influence of blood cannot be denied. I attach a certain value to the
descent of every one around me, and I have an idea that I shall be blessed
by the ancestors of those persons whom I love and honour. I am eager to
read the books you have sent me and I hope to be able to understand them
easily. Do you not think me a little stupid? I am only a great child, who
longs very much to be loved, and who longs too for knowledge and
understanding.
Understanding is a very difficult art. Is it not so, Dearest?
But when one understands, one judges mercifully, and one forgives.
It is Friday evening; Gamelan evening. Our souls are wafted up to the blue
heaven of our fancy by the sweet serene tones that are borne to us on the
evening wind from the pendopo.
Let us dream as long as it is possible; if there were no dreams, what would
life be?
We have taken away all the little trifles and ornaments from our room. It is
no longer the joyful girls' room, where we dreamed dreams, where we wept,
thought, felt, rejoiced and struggled! Only our book-case remains
unchanged, and our old friends smile at us still in their friendly, confident
and encouraging way.
One of our best friends, who is no longer ornamental because he has grown
old-fashioned, shows very plainly whenever the door is opened. Our dear,
true, old friend. Many people would turn up their noses at him, but we love
him because he has never left us, but has rejoiced with us in happy days;
and through dark troubled ones, he has comforted and supported us. He is
De Genestet. He has been such a consolation to us of late.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

XXXIII
March 5th, 1902.[1]
Do you know who has painted so many wajangs for us? It is one of our
gamelan players. The art of painting is part of the air in Japara. Little
urchins, buffalo boys, draw excellent wajangs, in the sand, on the walls, on
bridges, on the supports of bridges. The wall behind our house is always
covered with wajang figures. All the bridge supports erected today are
covered with them tomorrow, drawn with charcoal or with a little piece of
soap-stone by naked, dirty little apes. Favored land our Japara. You do not
know how proud we are of our dear, quiet place.
The grave of the Sultan of Mantangan is half an hour's ride, or somewhat
more from here. There is a whole connected narrative about the sultan's
grave, for it is a holy tomb. When the sultan came back from China, a
Chinese followed him and lies buried in the same place; over his grave
there is a patje tree. Miraculous powers are ascribed to this tree. Barren
women, who would gladly have a child, go there and take the sultan flowers
and incense wafers. When a patje fruit falls upon the grave of the
Chinaman, the woman must take it away, make it into a stew, and eat it; her
wish will then be granted. We have been told the names of persons who had
obtained their wishes in this way.
You see that the Javanese are a superstitious people fond of myths and fairy
tales. It is said that the children with which the Sultan of Mantangan blesses
the childless, will all be girls. Poor childless ones! We shall have to look for
a holy tomb that will bless the world with boys, for there are all too many
women in the world!
It was uphill work to make our artists carve wajang dolls. They were
frightened to death for fear the wajang spirits would be angry with them.
Father assured them that he would take all responsibility, that all
consequences would be upon his own head, and that the anger and wrath of
the spirits would smite him alone, the task-master, and not the workmen
who had merely carried out his will.

It was most difficult to take a photograph in the Kampong. A superstition
says that one shortens one's own life when one allows a photograph to be
taken, and that a photographer is a great sinner; all the portraits that he
makes will demand their lives of him in the after life.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

XXXIV
March 14, 1902.[1]
I have already written you about my sister in a former letter. It is such a
great loss, we miss our heart and soul sister all the time. Happily we have
already had encouraging letters from her. She is such a dear, noble child.
She is worth more than the other two of us put together. She likes her new
home, and has met with much kindness from every one. Her new family
took her by the hand, and wherever she went she found cordiality and
sympathy from Europeans, as well as from her own people.
You know already, from the marriage announcement that was sent you, that
her husband is Patih; that is one of the highest ranks in our native official
world; besides, our brother-in-law is heir to a throne. When his father
ceases to reign, he will, of course, succeed him. As the wife of a Regent,
sister will be able to do a great deal for the education of women, much more
than we will ever be able to accomplish. We have great hopes that her
husband will support her; at least, he was much in favour of the plans of the
Heer Abendanon.
He is devoted to his little wife, has a cheerful, energetic disposition and a
sympathetic heart. He maintains a whole multitude of poor families; that is
pleasant, do you not think so? But many Javanese do that; they have much
consideration for their poor neighbours. There is hardly a single native chief
who has not one or more poor families living in his house, or on his support
outside. It is not for nothing that India is noted for its hospitality. Are you
not satisfied now about sister too?
She is only discouraged because people expect too much of her. She is like
her older sister, who never feels her littleness so much as when a certain
person in Holland (Amsterdam) sets her too much in the sun.
Truly Stella, you must not do that; I shall be too much of a disappointment
to you when the happiest of all happy stars brings me to you. You have
much too good an opinion of me, of my character, and of my intellect; they

are, if I speak the honest truth, not worth a dubbeltje. But you will never be
disappointed in one thing, and that is, in my warm affection for you.
Lately, I had a letter from an old gentleman, who had great ideas about my
"gentle courage" and "sweet disposition" and my "skill in the Dutch
language." I smiled mournfully when I read it and thought to myself "if you
but knew."
Yesterday we received letters from Holland, and I said to myself, "Girl,
hold up your head, this will not be the only disappointment that life will
bring you; you may as well realize that the future has a whole multitude of
them stored in her lap for you." And yet I am in no wise cast down. Life
itself teaches one to be cold and unfeeling.
And now about the proposition from Mejuffrouw Van der Meij. In the first
place I thank you heartily, my true comrade, for what you have done for me,
and I thank you too for sending me "Belang en Recht." I went to Father
with your letter and asked him to read it.
Father will wait for the coming of Van Kol before he decides the question. I
have good hopes of his consent. Yes Stella, I will, but not under my own
name, I wish to remain unknown; tell that to Mejuffrouw Van der Meij. But
that will not help very much, when they learn here in India of articles by a
Javanese woman, they will know at once upon whom to lay the blame. It is
tiresome. I do not like to hear my work discussed, especially as I hear
nothing but praise. Ah! it is interesting for a Javanese woman to write in
Dutch; that is the whole of my easily earned success.
But let me take advantage of that interest whatever its cause. Frankly it has
its good side too, for at least I can obtain a hearing.
But how am I to gain friends for our cause by writing for the public unless I
say things that will make an impression and will be talked about, till they
penetrate to the second chamber itself?
I have always wanted to write something scathing, that tells what I feel, but
I do not feel strong enough; I still lack experience, I have yet to see and
hear much, and to think over what I have seen. The fruit is not yet ripe,
Stella; when it is, I shall no longer hesitate on account of the difficulties.

If we should turn to the Queen, it would not be in her official capacity, and
because we wished to obtain the help of the State through Royal
intervention. We should only ask the Princess for her personal help. If you
knew how proud we were, then you would understand what a struggle it has
caused us to make up our minds to ask for assistance.
But as you said, when large affairs come up, small ones must go to the wall.
We set our own pride aside before the general good. In the present instance
our only chance of success lies in asking for help.
Every one who has met the Queen assures me that her Majesty is interested
to the highest degree in the welfare of her Indian subjects. And the Queen
Mother also takes a warm interest in Indian affairs. We believe it; we are
glad to believe it.
At the time of the Woman's Exposition, it was the Queen Mother who sent
her personal secretary to the president of the colonial department to enquire
about our work, and her Majesty asked the president, when he was
conducting her around, to read to her some extracts from our letters. I feel
confident of support, from the Government and from the Queen.
If this support does not materialize, there is only Modjowarno left, but that
is not what our hearts wish. Do you know whom I long for in despondent,
unsettled weather? For our friend who is far away in the wilderness. Deep
in the heart of our inland country living among koppensnellers[2] in that
distant place, doing good in many ways but above all, through his
knowledge of medicine. I would fly to him as a bird with wounded wings,
and he would stroke my tired head till my sorrow could be stilled, and the
peace which he breathes would fall around me. But he too is human, he too
must have his despondent moods, his struggles.
Stella, Stella, if I could only throw my arms around you, and let my head
rest upon your heart.
[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.
[2] Head hunters, similar to the Dyaks of Borneo.

XXXV
March 21, 1902.[1]
You are right. The separation from sister has been a great grief to us, we
have been together so long, and so intimately. People were not wrong when
they said that we three had grown to be one in thought and in feeling. We
cannot realize that sister has really left us; the idea that she has gone away
never to return is unbearable. We try to imagine that she is only away on a
visit, and will be back some day.
We miss our Kleintje very much. But happiness will not stand still; this will
not be the only hard parting, we know that; many others await us in the
future.
It is wise from time to time,
When a tender strong bond
Binds and caresses the poor heart,
To tear it asunder with our own hands,
says De Genestet. But it is easier said than done. Do you not find it so? We
receive encouraging letters from little sister. She is happy and pleased with
her surroundings. That makes us so thankful, her happiness is our
happiness. And now I shall try and tell you something of her wedding.
A native marriage entails a heavy burden upon the family of the bride. Days
and weeks beforehand, the preparations for the solemnity are begun. Sister's
wedding was celebrated very quietly on account of a death in the family.
One of our cousins, who was a sister of the bridegroom, died shortly before
the marriage. Poor creature. She was still such a young thing, and she left
little children behind her. You must know that Kleintje is married to her
own cousin. His mother is father's sister. He was here with us long ago, but
then she was only a schoolgirl and no one thought of an engagement;
though it has happened that children have been affianced and married, and
later, when both were full grown, the marriage would be celebrated over
again.

The acquaintance of sister and her husband was renewed when the
Governor General was at Samarang. It is not customary among us for young
girls ever to leave the house until they follow a strange bridegroom; but as I
have already told you, we have broken with many traditions, and can do
what others cannot, on account of the unusual freedom of our bringing up;
and now we are working to break tradition still further.
No Javanese girl must be seen before her marriage; she must remain in the
background, usually in her own chamber; and in December we were at
Semarang with sister, and she went openly into the shops to buy some
things which she wanted.
A Javanese girl receives no good wishes upon her engagement; the subject
is not mentioned before her; still less does she mention it herself. She acts
just as though she knew nothing of it. I should like to have read the hearts
of our fellow countrywomen when they heard sister speak openly and freely
of her coming marriage.
A day or two before the wedding, we commemorated our dead. That is our
custom: in the midst of joy we always invoke the memory of our dead.
There was a sacrificial meal, during which their blessing was asked for the
offspring of the coming nuptials.
This takes place in the bride's family. My brother-in-law and his family
came on the day before the wedding. The first thing that a European
bridegroom would do on arriving at the home of his bride, would be to go
to her. But among us that would be out of the question. The bridegroom
must not see his bride until the knot is tied. Even his family must not see
her.
On the day before the wedding, the bride was bathed in a bath of flowers,
and after that she was taken in hand by the toekang paès, a woman whose
business is the dressing of brides. The bride takes her seat on a cloth that is
especially prepared for the occasion, it consists of katoentjes[2] and zijdjes,
enough for a kabaja, joined together. This is the property of the toekang
paès. At her side are placed sweetmeats besides sirrih, pinang nuts, bananas,
a jug of water, uncooked rice, a roasted hen, a live hen, and a burning night
candle. Incense is burned, and the toekang paès cuts the fine hair from the
bride's neck and face; the hair on the forehead is cut, too; even the hair over

the ears. And the eyebrows are shaved off with a razor. One can always tell
a newly married woman, by the shorn hair across the forehead and ears and
by the shaved eyebrows.
At about one o'clock in the day, the toilet of the bride begins. The forehead
is covered with soft salve, even to the ears, and the face is whitened, while
the hair is dressed in the form of a cap, and ornamented with flowers.
On the headdress are seven jewels, fastened upon spirals, which are
constantly waving up and down.

A gold embroidered kain,[3] and a kabaja of silver gauze, with the usual
jewelled ornaments, such as brooches, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and
sleeve-buttons, completed her toilet.
In Java, young girls must not wear flowers in the hair; only married women
may do that; one often sees very old women going around with flowers in
their hair.
The evening before the wedding is called widodarenni; widodari means
angel, heavenly being. On the last evening of her maidenhood, the girl on
the threshold of matrimony is compared to such a heavenly being, and the
evening is celebrated.
You must have seen the photographs of Javanese wood-work at Mevrouw
Rooseboom's, and you may remember the picture of an article of furniture
with three doors in front. That is called a kwade, and it is used at weddings.
A handsome carved kwade covered with gold figures on a purple ground,
was in the great hall at the back of the Kaboepaten. All tables, chairs, and
benches were removed from that apartment and the floors were covered
with a great alcatief.
On both sides of the kwade, which was draped and ornamented with
flowers, stood two large copper vases, filled with young cocoanut leaves
and flowers. These vases are called kembang majang, and must not be
broken at a wedding.
At about half-past seven in the evening, when all of the women guests had
assembled in the kwade-hall and were ranged on the ground in two rows,

one on each side of the kwade, sister came in, led by the hand of our
married sister and our sister-in-law, and followed by a woman who carried
her sirrihdoos[4] and kwispeldoor.[5] Sister sat down in the middle of the
room, near her family and the most prominent guests. The sirrihdoos and
the kwispeldoor were placed next to her only as a matter of form, for
Kleintje eats no sirrih; behind her, a little girl waved a koelte.
Sister sat with crossed legs before the gold shining kwade, motionless as an
image of Buddha, between the gravely dressed, solemn-looking wives of
the native dignitaries, equal in rank to her husband. Tea and cakes were
served, every one took a cup of tea and several kinds of small pastries. The
bride and the most distinguished guests each had an individual tea-service,
and a tray of pastries. It was as though a whole carpet of pastries were
spread out before the guests, here and there broken by sirrihdoozen and
kwispeldoors of gold and tortoiseshell, of wood, or of silver. The company
was composed entirely of married women. We unmarried ones were not
there.
You have certainly heard that among the Javanese it is a great misfortune
for a woman to remain unmarried. It is a disgrace as well. Not so long ago,
in enlightened Europe it was looked upon in the same way; is not that true?
So we must not think ill of the foolish uncivilized Indians.
If the bridegroom has a mother, on this evening she must be at the feast of
her daughter-in-law-to-be.
Our masculine guests ate with father in the pendopo, while the bridegroom
stayed at home in his lodgings.
Sister was so glad when, at half-past nine, the ceremonial was over, so far
as she was concerned. She walked decorously and sedately from the hall,
through the throng of women sitting around; but as soon as she was out of
sight, and safe in our room all the formality was gone. She was again our
little sister, our dear happy Kleintje, and no Buddha image. That evening
was sacred to the Prophet. In the mosque there was a great slamatan
(sacrificial meal, celebrated with prayers); the blessing of heaven was asked
upon the approaching marriage.

At that meal, only men were present, our women guests, even the Regents'
wives who had come to sister's wedding, ate at home with us.
Early the next morning, there was a stir in the kaboepaten. It looked quite
gay, with its decorations of greens and flags. Outside on the highway, there
was bustle and noise. The tricolour waved merrily among the rustling young
cocoanut trees that bordered the road which led to the house of the
bridegroom. In the green covered pasehuisen, two little houses on the aloen-
aloen before the kaboepaten, the gamelan played lustily.
We were on the back gallery, where stood baskets of kanangas, tjempakas,
and melaties. Women's hands were arranging the flowers into garlands, or
suspending them on little swings, or tearing the blossoms from the leaves,
so that they could be strewn in the way of the bridal pair wherever they
might go. The kaboepaten was filled with gamelan music and the perfume
of flowers. Busy people walked to and fro. In our room, the toilet of the
bride was begun. Her forehead had been painted dark before; now it was
decorated with little golden figures.
Sister lay down during the operation. Behind the figures there were two
borders fastened to the hair—a dark one behind the gold; into this, jewelled
knobs were stuck. With other brides the border-work is made of their own
hair; but for sister we had a false piece set in, because the elaborate process
is painful, and the poor child had just recovered from a fever.
Above the border-work came a golden diadem, and her hair at the back of
the head was dressed like a half-moon and filled with flowers; from that, a
veil of melati with a border of flowers fell, and reached to her shoulders.
Her head was again surmounted by the seven jewels glittering on their
spirals. Behind these, there was a jewelled flower, from which hung six
chains of real flowers, suspended behind the ears, over the breast, and down
to the waist. These chains, which were about as thick as one's fingers, were
made of white flowers linked together with little bands of gold and ending
in a round knob which was stuck full of melati flowers.
Her wajang costume was décolleté in front, so that neck, face, and arms
were entirely uncovered. All that was visible of sister except the face, which
was whitened, was covered with a fragrant salve. She wore a gold
embroidered kain, over which there was a drapery of gold woven silk; the

whole was held up by a sash of yellow with long hanging ends of red silk
pointed with figures of gold. A dark green sash, growing lighter till it was
pale green in the centre, was bound around the upper part of her body. Little
glints of gold showed delightfully through this. Her arms and shoulders
were left entirely free. The yellow girdle around her waist was called
mendologiri. Sister wore one of gold, three fingers broad and ornamented
with jewels; garlands of flowers, with hanging ends, were fastened to it,
reaching from behind one hip to the other. Around her neck, she wore a
collar, with three wing-shaped ornaments hanging down over her breast and
almost to her waist. There were bracelets on her wrists and on the upper
part of her arms, shaped like serpents with upraised tails and heads; golden
chains dangled from these.
It was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon. In the kwade hall the
wives of the native nobles assembled in gala attire. From the kwade to the
pendopo there was a carpet of flowers, over which the bridal pair must
walk. The bride was led forward by her sisters and took her place before the
kwade. The lights were already lighted in the pendopo; the regents stood
assembled in official costume, and there were a few European
acquaintances who were anxious to see sister for the last time as a maiden.
In the aloen-aloen, and all outside the kaboepaten, it was dark with people;
only the road which was decorated with flags and green leaves remained
free.
A streak of yellow could be seen in the distance; it drew nearer, till there
appeared a train of open gold-striped parasols (pajoengs), under which the
native officials walk on great occasions.
It was the retinue which preceded the bridegroom, who, with the other
regents, was in an open carriage, which was covered with a glittering
golden parasol. Gamelan music sounded from the pasebans and the
kaboepaten, to greet the approaching procession.
It reached the kaboepaten and halted at the door of the pendopo. The whole
company squatted down; the bridegroom got out of the carriage, and was
led forward by two unmarried regents. They went into the pendopo, and all
three knelt down in the middle of the room to do homage to father and the
other regents. The two regents moved back, still on their knees, and left the

bridegroom alone in the middle of the pendopo. The chiefs formed a circle
around him, within which there was a smaller circle of priests. Father sat at
the head of the regents, and the High Priest who was to perform the
ceremony next to the bridegroom. Father announced to those present the
reason for the calling of this assembly, and said that he now sought the
assistance of the High Priest to bind his daughter in marriage to the
bridegroom.
From the crowd of people in the pendopo there arose a mystic buzzing
noise. They were praying.
I was so sorry that I could not be near enough to hear. A teacher who is a
friend of ours, sister Roekmini, and I were the only women in the pendopo,
which was filled with men.
But we were very glad to be allowed there at all, and to have that much
freedom granted us. It would not have been seemly for us to appear among
a crowd of men during the celebration of a marriage ceremony. It was a
pity, as we should have been glad to hear the betrothal formulas. We could
only see that during the betrothal service the Priest held fast to the hand of
the bridegroom, who had to respond after him. The solemnity lasted a
quarter of an hour at most; but we did not have a watch with minutes, so we
could not tell exactly. It was impressive and still in the pendopo: not a
sound could be heard save the mystic droning of the priests.
There was a stir among the crowd of men, and the priests rose from their
knees. The ceremony was over.
The regents stood up; two of them lifted up the bridegroom, and now they
started off over the carpet of flowers, followed by the most prominent
regents. Back in the kwade hall, the bride was raised up by her sisters, and,
supported by them, she too started down the road of flowers, followed by
Mamma and all the women guests. As the bride and bridegroom came
within a few steps of each other, those who were leading them fell back,
and the bridal pair gave, each to the other, a rolled up sirrih-leaf filled with
flowers. They took a few steps nearer, and then both knelt down and with
them the whole company.

The bridegroom sat; on her knees, the bride moved nearer to him and made
a sembah, both hands held together and brought down under the nose; that
is our mark of reverence. Then she kissed his right knee. Again the bride
made a sembah. The bridegroom rose and raised his wife, and hand in hand
the young pair walked over the carpet of flowers to the kwade, followed by
the whole company except the regents, who turned back to the pendopo.
Bride and bridegroom sat before the kwade like two images of Buddha; the
family and the lady guests thronged around them. Behind the bridal pair sat
two little girls wafting their koeltes to and fro.
In most cases, husband and wife see each other for the first time at this
ceremony. At the stroke of half-past seven the regents came back, and
formed a half-circle on the ground around the bridal pair; the women of
their families formed the other half of the circle.
The bride and bridegroom saluted the older relatives with the foot-kiss.
The bride first raised herself on her knees and shuffled forward toward
Mamma; she made a sembah and kissed Mamma's knee, to beg her mother's
blessing on her marriage. From Mamma, sister went to the aunts, sisters,
and cousins—to all those who were older than she—and went through with
the same ceremony. Then she went to Father and kissed his knee, in order to
receive his blessing; from him she went to her father-in-law; after that to
her uncles and cousins. When she had finished kissing the feet of all and
had returned again to her place, the bridegroom began the foot-kiss journey.
He followed the example of his wife. When he had completed this
ceremony, the regents went out, and tea and pastry were served as on the
evening before.
At half-past eight bride and bridegroom departed. Hand in hand they left the
hall. Usually they must go out on their knees; but as both of them had just
recovered from illness, they were allowed to walk.
In other families the bridegroom must creep up the steps instead of walking,
on coming to the house of his parents-in-law, before he pays his respects to
the ladies of the family; that is the perfection of good manners.
The bridegroom went to the bridal chamber, and sister to our room, where
we dressed her for the reception to Europeans.

Her bridal toilet, which had been the work of a whole day, was undone in
five minutes. Only the headdress and the decorations on her forehead were
left unchanged. We young girls ought not to have dressed her alone, but we
did it just the same. We thought that it was entirely too stupid for us not to
be allowed to touch sister in her bridal toilet. Sister now put on a kain of
silk interwoven with gold, and a kabaja of ivory-coloured satin with silver
embroidery. She wore another jewelled collar; the jewelled flowers in her
hair and the diadem were taken off. In their stead she wore a golden crown
from which hung a veil. On her head jewelled flowers on spirals were
fastened. So veiled and crowned, it was as though she had stepped from a
page of the "Thousand and One Nights." Sister looked like one of the fairy
princesses. The costume was very becoming to her. What a pity that she
could not have been photographed in it!
The bridegroom appeared in his official dress. Again the bridal pair sat
before the kwade. At eight o'clock, they went arm in arm to the front
gallery, where two gilded settees stood ready for them before a background
of palms.
They received the good wishes of the European ladies and gentlemen,
standing.
It was called a reception, but at the sound of the music, the dance-crazy feet
turned toward the empty pendopo; bride and bridegroom both took a few
turns around the pendopo.
It is not customary for young girls to appear at a wedding, but it would have
been foolish for us to remain away from sister's feast.
It was not yet twelve o'clock, when the Resident, who was among the
guests, toasted the young pair; his speech was answered by Father. Soon
after the European guests took their leave, all but the Resident and a few
others, among them a lady who is an intimate friend of ours. They remained
for the native part of the feast.
After the departure of the European guests, the native nobles, who had
absented themselves from the pendopo during the reception, came in and
formed a half-circle, before which the bridegroom must give a proof of his
proficiency in dancing.

The regents as well as the other chiefs had meanwhile dressed in more
informal costume.
The gamelan played; a dancing-girl entered and began to dance. The Patih
of Japara brought, on his knees, a silver waiter to the bridegroom, on which
there was a silken cloth. When the bridegroom had taken the cloth, the Patih
fell back.
Soft gamelan tones again sounded; it was a prelude, an invitation to the
hero of the day to open the feast. The bridegroom rose and went to the
middle of the pendopo; he fastened the silken cloth around him and named
his favourite air to the gamelan players. The gongs chimed; it was
immediately struck up.
I shall not attempt to describe the dance; my pen is inadequate. I shall only
say that it was a joy to the eyes to follow the agile dancer in his graceful
movements as he kept time to the beautiful gamelan music. Behind him
danced the dancing-girl, also singing. The circle of native dignitaries
accompanied the music by singing and beating their hands together. Toward
the end of the dance the Resident went forward with two glasses of
champagne. The gong sounded, and both dancers fell upon their knees.
With a sembah the bridegroom accepted a glass from the Resident. He
drank it and the Resident emptied his at the same time amid joyful gamelan
tones and sounds of general mirth.
A servant took the empty glasses, and the Resident fell back. The
bridegroom stood up and again began to dance. Now his father-in-law
brought him a health[6] to drink; dancing, they advanced to meet each other,
and at the sound of the gong, the young man knelt down to receive the
wine-glass from the hand of the older one.
After a health had been brought to him by all the regents present, he left
them and went back to sit by the side of his wife. Soon after that the bridal
pair left the assembly; the European guests went home, but the feast was
kept up till early in the morning. The European gentlemen had danced too,
and our Assistant Resident acquitted himself excellently.
Mamma, our friend, sister Roekmini, and I stayed till the last European
guest had gone.

The next day there was quiet in the house. In the afternoon the last
ceremony took place. That is the first visit of the bridal pair to the parents of
the groom. It is called in Javanese ngoendoh mantoe, which, literally
translated, means "daughter-in-law plucking!" The daughter-in-law is
compared to a flower which her husband's parents will pluck.
For this occasion both bride and groom should again put on their bridal
costume; but that would have been much too wearisome, so the groom was
dressed as usual and sister wore a kain interwoven with gold, and a silk
kabaja; her hair was dressed in the form of a cap, and on her head was a
small sheath in the shape of a cross, which was filled with flowers, and over
the whole was a network of melati blossoms, and again the jewelled spirals
waved to and fro above her head.
The bridal pair went in a procession, followed by the native chiefs on foot,
to the house where the father of the bridegroom lodged.
Days and weeks after the wedding the newly married pair are still called
bride and bridegroom. The bride is a bride until she becomes a mother.
There are women, mothers, who all their lives are called nganten, short for
penganten, which means bride and also bridegroom.
The day after the ceremony was spent in receiving visits from both
Europeans and natives.
Five days later there was again a feast in the kaboepaten; the first return of
the holy day which had opened the wedding ceremonies was celebrated.
The young couple left a week after the wedding; they were feted
everywhere by various family connections with whom they stopped on their
journey home. At Tegal the marriage was celebrated all over again; they
remained there a week, and finally they reached their own home at
Pemalang.
There, you have a description of a Javanese wedding in high circles. Sister's
marriage was called only a quiet affair, and yet it entailed all that ceremony.
What must a wedding be that is celebrated in a gala way?
We were dead tired after the wedding.

The Javanese give presents at a marriage; things to wear, such as kains,
stomachers, headdresses, silk for kabajas, cloth for jackets; and also things
to eat, such as rice, eggs, chickens, or a buffalo. These are merely meant as
marks of good-will.
Kardinah also received a splendid bull from an uncle. This had to be placed
on exhibition with the other presents!
When a buffalo is killed at the time of a wedding—and usually more than
one is needed for the feast meals—a bamboo vessel filled with sirrih, little
cakes, pinang nuts, and pieces of meat must be mixed with the running
blood of the slaughtered buffalo. These vessels, covered with flowers, are
laid at all of the cross-roads, bridges, and wells on the estate, as an offering
to the spirits who dwell there. If these bridge, road, and water spirits, are
not propitiated, they will be offended at the festivities, and misfortune will
come of it. That is the belief of the people. Its origin I do not know.
A friend of ours says rightly that the Javanese are a people who are filled
with legends and superstitions. Who shall lead the people out of the dusky
realm of fairy tales into the light of work and reality? And then, when
superstition is cast off, we do not want the poetry to be trampled under foot.
But of what good is my prattling? Let me rather ask you if you have been
interested in this epistle, and if you will now forgive me for my long
silence?
There is so much that is lovable in my people, such charm in their simple
naïve beliefs. It may sound strange, but it is, nevertheless, a fact, that you
Europeans have taught me to love my own land and people. Instead of
estranging us from our native land, our European education has brought us
nearer to it; has opened our hearts to its beauties, and also to the needs of
our people and to their weaknesses.
Do not let me tire you any longer with the scribbling of a silly Javanese girl;
I have written enough.
(Postscript)
In some places it is the custom when the bridal pair meet for the first time
for the bride to wash the groom's feet as a token of submission before she

gives him the knee-kiss. Whenever a widower marries a young girl, or a
widow a young man, the giving of the sirrih at the wedding is omitted. The
one who has already been married hands the other, who carries a watering-
can, a piece of burning wood, the contents of the can are poured upon the
fire, which naturally goes out; whereupon the charred wood is thrown away
and the watering-can broken into pieces.
The symbolism of this I do not have to explain. It is plain enough. You
should have seen sister as she sat there before the kwade. She ought to have
been photographed, or, better still, painted, because that would have shown
the colouring.
She stepped so calmly and sedately down the carpet of flowers; everywhere
there were flowers and the perfume of incense; yes, truly, she was much
like a Bodhisatwa! (incarnation of Buddha).
I cannot hear the gamelan or smell the perfume of flowers and incense,
without seeing her image before my eyes.
The people picked up the flowers over which sister had walked and kept
them; they bring good luck, it is said, and to young daughters, a husband!
[1] To Mevrouw de Booij-Boissevain.
[2] Pieces of cotton and silk.
[3] A scarf or shawl draped to form part of the costume.
[4]The box to hold the sirrih paste.
[5] A spitting-box; for it is necessary to spit after chewing sirrih. These boxes are
often of gold or tortoiseshell, and beautifully ornamented. They are placed by a
Javanese lady on all formal as well as informal occasions.
[6] "heildronk" in the orig. Dutch—"toast" would be appropriate here. (M.D.)

XXXVI
March 27, 1902.[1]
It is always said of the girls here that, "they are well provided for, and
comfortably taken care of." Have they a right to complain? Well means,
well-being, happiness, the opposite of misery; and misery is what the
women feel, and yet they have no right to complain—they are said to act
always of their own free will. But how about their children? What is more
wretched than a sad childhood, than children who too early have learned to
read the shadow side of life?
I once copied something from a speech by Prof. Max Müller, the great
German scholar who was so learned in Eastern tongues. It was almost as
follows: "Polygamy, as it is practiced by the Eastern people is of benefit to
women and girls, who could not live in their environment without a man to
take care of them and to protect them."
Max Müller is dead; we cannot call him here to show him the benefits of
that custom.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

XXXVII
May 17th, 1902.[1]
I cannot tell you how great was my joy when at last I was able to begin my
studies. So far it has been but a review of what I once learned at school
more than ten full years ago. But there is one advantage in this late study. I
can understand now much more quickly and readily than I could in my
childhood, still it is a deep grief to me that I am now twenty-three years old
instead of thirteen. I could then look forward so far. I could have carried on
my studies indefinitely, but now time is limited on account of my age.
First, I am working at Dutch so that I shall have it thoroughly in my head,
and then later I must study one or two of the native languages.
There, I have struck so hard with my pen that my pen-holder is broken
through the middle, but even that does not make me give up. Poor pen! I
have depended so much upon it and we have worked together happily for so
long, I must be a strange creature to lament over a broken pen-holder!
In April, we went on a journey; we paid our sister a visit. We left our home
without the least idea of seeing her again; we went to see another sister, our
eldest, who was ill. While we were there, we received an urgent letter from
little sister, begging us to come to Pemalang, to see her. We set out early the
next morning. How can I describe that meeting to you? It was simply
blissful! We did nothing the first few moments but look at one another and
hold one another tight. And I was so thankful to see her well. She had never
looked so fresh and blooming before. She had roses in her cheeks. And
beyond everything, it delighted me to see how her husband valued and
honoured her.
It is with great pleasure that I have learned to know my new brother-in-law.
He is a good, sincere man, with many fine traits. He is very upright, just and
true, and has a sympathetic heart. She is his comrade, his advisor, his friend,
and a mother as well to his three children, who are as fond of her as if she
were their own mother.

The children follow her footsteps everywhere, like little faithful dogs. The
oldest child, a boy of seven, had lived with his grandparents. Sister took
him in charge and the child is devoted to her now and loves to be with her;
though his grandparents did not keep him at arm's length you may be sure.
The two others are girls of six and four, she gives them lessons at home: so
I might almost call them little pupils, Stella.
He leaves the education of his children entirely to her, and naturally sister
will bring up her little daughters in our spirit. Sister has not been able to
realize her early dream, as she had dreamed it, but is the task which she has
undertaken less beautiful for that reason?
Our roads have divided, but both of us work for the same ideal; what
matters it which road one takes if it but leads to the same goal?

I long to go to Holland for many reasons; the first is study, the second is
that I want European air to blow upon the few remaining prejudices that
still cling to me, so that they may be wholly driven away. There are not
many left, it is true, but some obstinately remain. Only your cold air, Stella,
can make of me in truth, a free woman. To mention but one of the persistent
little prejudices, I should not be disturbed in the least if I were alone in a
room filled with European gentlemen. But I can think of nothing, that could
make me, under any possible circumstances, receive alone, even one well-
born Javanese young man, who was unmarried. I think it is laughable,
absurd, idiotic, but it is true. I dare not talk to a strange man without a
companion, and even if there were company, I should think it tiresome, and
should not feel at my ease.
So you see that in spite of my strong ideas of freedom, I cannot get away
from the influence of my native environment, which keeps girls strictly
secluded. When the idea has been strongly inculcated that it is not modest to
show oneself to strange men's eyes, then it is a hard task to break away
from it. It must not remain always so, that prejudice must go. How else
shall we be able to work together with men? And that is part of our plan.
One way in which we hope to accomplish much good.

Only the air of Europe will be potent to separate me from the influence of
my Javanese education. Sometimes I laugh at myself and it drives away the
foolishness for a little, but it always comes back.
We returned from our journey on the 19th of April. Father came several
stations to meet us. He brought a long official telegram from the Resident,
which announced that the Heer Van Kol would come to Japara the next day.
That was a delightful greeting of welcome, and I found something still nicer
when I got home—your letter.
All the government officials along the whole line received the orders from
the Resident to wait upon the Heer Van Kol as he passed through. On
Sunday afternoon, at the stroke of three, the travellers arrived. With Van
Kol was a journalist, who served him as interpreter and guide, and Father,
who had waited for him at the border.
Van Kol had made a resolution never to lodge anywhere except in a hotel,
because he knows well the open hospitality of the country. But after he had
made the acquaintance of our family, and received a pressing invitation, he
stayed with us. Later we heard that it was we who had been responsible for
his faithlessness to his resolution. He thought us worthy of scrutiny, he
wished to observe the influence of European education on girls of the
aristocracy, and could not let the opportunity pass. Happily we did not hear
this till afterwards. The knowledge would have made us constrained and
self-conscious.
At the table, he talked almost constantly of his wife and children. It was
splendid to hear how this great man honours his wife. He met her through
correspondence, a point of resemblance there, Stella. He corresponded with
her at first about her literary work. It was only by chance that she
discovered her great gift, her talent for writing. She was at that time a
governess, and was staying with some friends at a villa on the slope of the
Pinanggoengan (their villa now in Prinsenhage is called after that villa "Lali
Djiwa"—soul's rest). One of the party must write a description of the place,
and they drew lots to decide which one it should be. The lot fell upon her.
She sent the article to a magazine and the editor wrote asking her for more.
Van Kol has been to all of the places where he lived and worked in his early
days, and the children who formerly played with his daughter, he found

mothers themselves when he went back. But he still remembered them and
knew them all by their names.
Stella, we were happier that evening with the Heer Van Kol than we have
been in a long time.
At first we showed them examples of the artistic work of our people, which
called forth expressions of wonder and admiration, and Heer Van Kol made
some sketches of them. Some of the company moved away and the chair
next to him was empty; I slipped into it.
Then he began, "You have planned to go to Holland? Melchers told me so."
On my answering in the affirmative, he went on, "But it will be difficult for
you later, when you come back. The greatest difficulty lies in coming back
to the old life."
"Why do you think that?"
He spoke frankly and openly and said, "It would be too difficult for you, if
later on, you should marry. After having lived in Holland you would never
be able to make yourself contented as the wife of a native chief."
He instanced cases of well educated native girls their friends, who had
married Hollanders. They and their husbands were devoted to one another
but the Indian cannot be really happy amid European surroundings, and the
Hollander can never accustom himself to the Indian life, so there is always
an impassable gulf between husband and wife.
I let him finish quietly, before I brought my own ideas to the light of day;
"Mijnheer Van Kol, if I should go to Holland, my intention is to be educated
for a profession, that of teaching preferably, and when I come back I plan to
open an institute for the daughters of native chiefs. It is to study that I wish
to go there."
He looked at me in surprise; his blue eyes lighted up as though to himself
he said, "That is a fine idea—a very fine idea." Then to me, "Do you not
think it splendid to have an object in life?" There was so much enthusiasm
in his voice and in the expression of his eyes, that I felt my heart grow
warm, involuntarily my lips formed a word, a name "Stella."

Stella, if I could only have you here, but then the earth would be too small
to hold my happiness. For that was happiness, that moment when I saw that
my plans were understood and respected too, by a superior man like Van
Kol. It was like the feeling that mothers must have when they hear their
children understood and praised.
He asked if I had talked with Mevrouw Rooseboom. No, I had never had
the opportunity; both times I had met her there had been a great company, a
ball or a dinner. They seemed to have spoken of us at the palace, because
Heer Van Kol told me as soon as he arrived that his Excellency the
Governor General had said that he knew me.
Annie Glazer goes on her vacation next month to Batavia and to
Buitenzorg. She will go for us to the Abendanons' and tell them all that we
have in our hearts; she will go too to our friends at Buitenzorg. Could I but
go with her!
What we have to do is to present a petition or something of the kind, which
Heer Van Kol will write for us from Batavia. The petition will set forth our
names, our ages and very briefly what we want to do. And to make sure that
he will remember us when he gets to Holland I have at his instigation
written to his wife and explained our plans to her.
He was delighted at Roekmini's idea of going to the Art Academy, and also
to know that she wished to go through the household school. For indeed it
appears that she has not enough talent to ever go very far in her art. He
shared our belief that a teacher of Domestic Science could help our people
very much. But he is anxious for her to be able to go to the Academy for a
few months before she starts on her domestic studies. He thought it fine that
we two should wish to work together and help each other. He said many
times over "I think it splendid for you two to want to undertake so much."
I have talked to him about the idea of teaching hygiene and kindred subjects
in our schools, and let him understand that I should be glad to take a course
in hygiene and nursing, in order to teach them later. He thought that a good
idea too.
"In India you could not study that except under great difficulties; in Europe
it would be quite easy, there you would have everything under your hand,

and you could easily get through in a few years, as you speak and write
Dutch very well."
I told him of other reasons why we wished to sojourn for a time in Europe.
He sympathized with us there too. And he was one with us in the belief that
our ideas would be able to compel a larger following, that we could spread
them broadcast, if we worked under the protection of the Government. The
Javanese nation is like a great child that loves show and display. It respects
everything with which the all powerful Government concerns itself.
We talked of the education, if such it may be called, of the daughters of the
nobles. Van Kol knows Regents' wives, and knows of their monotonous dull
lives.
It was time that something should be done for Javanese girls; he is the last
man with whom I should have to argue about the importance of woman's
place in society. He spoke of his own noble and highly gifted wife with
such love and respect. He called her his counsellor and his guiding star.
It touched me deeply to hear this man making himself so small beside his
wife. He is small in body, but great in heart and soul. It was delightful to be
in his company.
I have been asked to put my ideas in writing in the form of a brochure or
letter to the Queen. It would do much good to our cause if she, who is a
woman herself, knows of the deep injustice that our women suffer. But I
must know what I am doing. As soon as I let my voice be heard, I know that
I shall bring down the anger and hate of many of the Javanese men upon my
head.
For myself personally I do not fear their hate or anger, but if I should
become a teacher I might have to stand before a class without scholars,
because no father would trust his children to me. I should have touched the
egoism of man.
I have received an answer to my question as to when a Mohammedan girl
comes of age. It is "A Mohammedan girl never comes of age. If she wishes
to be free, she would have to marry and after that be divorced." So we shall
have to declare ourselves of age, and compel the world to recognize our
independence.

You know that Van Kol came here with a journalist. He wrote a description
of the journey that he made with Van Kol, also the visit to the kaboepaten is
described, and something is told of our conversation with Heer Van Kol.
Now people will know whither we are going. I only hope that making our
ideas public will do good and not harm. For the first time my name would
come out openly in connection with my people. I am proud of that Stella—
to be named with the same breath with my people.

Keep this portrait in memory of the triple bond. Poor clover leaf, it was too
beautiful, so it had to be pulled apart. It is the best portrait that we have; it is
good of all of us. It was made at Christmas time and it is our last portrait,
taken together as girls. The sight of the little group makes me sorrowful.
Three hearts grew together on one stem, and now one of them has been torn
away. Will the wound ever heal? It still bleeds at the least touch.
Oh Stella, you do not know how we miss her. Everything reminds us of her
—speaks of her. We feel so old now; the past seems to lie behind us like an
eternity, and yet a half year has not gone by since she left us.
[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.

XXXVIII
May 26th, 1902.[1]
I have read your last letter over many times; in it you write so
sympathetically about the Javanese people. It is very pleasant that you
should have such friendly thoughts towards the brown race. If I could only
have you here with us there are so many things about my people which I
should be glad to show you. Where can one study and learn to understand a
people better than in the heart of that people? and here we have a true
Javanese environment. You know that all of you would be welcome at any
time.
It is charming of you to wish to have me with you, but alas! for the present I
may only appreciate your good will. To travel alone to Buitenzorg belongs
just now to the realm of forbidden fruit. But who knows when a change
may come! So much that seems to us today to be absolutely impossible,
appears tomorrow as an accomplished fact. The Javanese are a nation filled
with memories and fairy tales, in dreams and fairy tales the most wonderful
things happen, and my heart which is Javanese through and through, holds
fast to the illusion that there can still be miracles, even as there were in the
far distant past.
If you knew of the dreams of some Javanese girls that you know, possibly
you might be surprised at them, think them strange, but you would not, I
hope, merely shrug your shoulders in pity. You know, do you not, that we
are possessed by the idea of going to your country? But you do not know
why. What one naturally thinks when one speaks of visiting strange lands, is
of seeing and understanding new things, enjoying oneself, and perhaps also
of learning accomplishments.
But when we feel so much for the suffering of our people, is it strange then
that there should be in us a great longing to do something that will help
them? What has that to do with our desire to go to your country? We wish
to gather knowledge and bring back to our people the treasures of other
lands, of your own country first of all. We do not wish to change the spirit

of the native Javanese, but to cultivate the good which is latent in them.
That is the goal which we have set before our eyes.
It is such a pity that we live so far from each other. How nice it would be if
we could exchange thoughts and ideas. Things can be expressed so much
better in spoken than in written words. But our correspondence is very
pleasant to me, we meet at so many points. How gladly I should teach you
to know and understand my people. A wonder artist must rise up in Java to
tell of our race in beautiful words to his fellow countrymen. Just as Fielding
has written of the Burmanese. Now we have only that notorious book by
Veth[2] that has brought so many pens into motion, and caused a storm of
anger to break forth.
Every land has its own individual faults. India just as well as every other
country on this round earth. Poor India, in foreign lands one knows so
bitterly little of you, and a book like that of Veth will certainly not gain you
sympathy.

Augusta de Wit[3] writes with understanding, and in beautiful language
about India. We always read her articles in the Gids with much pleasure.
In everything that concerns nature and art, and in "dreams," Borel is
delightful. On other subjects he has less good to say, he goes hand in hand
with his friend Veth. Have you read what Borel has written about the
gamelan? We think it a little jewel. And did you see the article by Martine
Tonnet about the Wajang Orang at the court of Djokarta? That too is a
jewel. I wish that Borel would go there, he might feel inspired to break into
charming poetry. The dance[4] of the Princes of Solo and Djokarta must be
magnificent. It is the dance of dances it is said. It is a pity that we cannot go
to Djokarta. We have often been invited, but it would be so wearisome to
dress in court costume, and at court every one must be dressed (like a
bride).
Do you know that fairy story by Marie Marx-Koning? We think it very fine.
It seems to me that she must be a great admirer of Van Eeden. "t'Viooltje dat
weten wilde," reminds me of "De Kleine Johannes." Do you not like that
too? It is so true in thought, and in style it is charming.

I read what you wrote of your little protégé with great interest, and also
what you said of the poor in Holland. I hear much of the misery of the poor
there when winter comes. Poor, poor simple creatures! I correspond with a
Frieslander; she tells me about conditions in Holland, especially in
Friesland. In the winter time she has often sat down on the ground beside
poor people who lived in little hovels of straw. The middle of winter, no
work, nothing to eat, no fire, no clothes, no warm covering, and crying
children. It is bitterly hard.
[1] Mevrouw de Booij-Boissevain.
[2] "Java; Geographisch, Ethnologisch, Historisch," 3 vols. Haraam 1875-80, by
Professor Veth of Leyden.
[3] "Facts and Fancies about Java," by Augusta de Wit.
[4] For a description of the dance of the Princes at the court of Soerakarta, see
"Un Séjour dans l'île de Java" by Jules LeClercq. Chap. 14, p. 169.

XXXIX
June 10, 1902.[1]
Dutch has always been my favourite study, and many people say that I am
thoroughly at home in it. But heavens! fondness for a language is a very
long way from knowledge of it. Next to languages I like geology. I also
enjoy mathematics, but I am still struggling with the groundwork of history.
Not that I do not like history; I think it is interesting and very instructive;
but the manner in which it is set down in school-books has little charm for
me. I should like to have a teacher who knew how to make the dry parts
interesting. What I do think delightful, is ancient history; it is a pity that so
little of it has come my way. I should love to study the history of the
Egyptians, and of the old Greeks and Romans.
We do not wish to make of our pupils half Europeans or European Javanese.
We want a free education, to make of the Javanese, above everything, a
strong Javanese. One who will be blessed with love and enthusiasm for his
own land and people, with a heart open to their good qualities and to their
needs.[2]
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.
[2] En somme Java est trop gouvernée. La remède est sous la main; "Instruire les
indigènes non pas avec l'idée d'en faire des Européens, mais dans le but de les
préparer à devenir les collaborateurs intimes de ceux-ci." A. Fabert.

XL
June 17, 1902.[1]
I read in the paper that some Chinese girls had asked permission to stand
the teachers' examinations. Hurrah for progress! I feel like shouting aloud in
my joy. Of what good is the preservation of a few old traditions? We see
now that the strongest and oldest traditions can be broken; and that gives
me courage and hope. I should like to meet the gallant little Chinese girls; I
should be so glad to know something of their thoughts and feelings, their
"soul."
I have always longed to have a Chinese girl for a friend. I have often
wondered about the inner life of such a girl. It must certainly be full of
poetry.

At Semarang, a Chinese[2] millionaire has laid out a splendid garden. It lies
on a hill and is so beautiful; there are rocks, grottos and tiny hills covered
with green ferns. Masses of flowers and miniature fruit trees are
interspersed with little parks and winding paths.
There is a lovely summer-house in the middle of the lake. The lake has
many capes and twisted turns. And in it, goeromis and gold fish can be seen
swimming around. On the shore, is a hill with a grotto, and a bath house. A
winding stair runs through the grotto and comes out on top of the hill,
where two miniature temples stand. Fruit trees and flowers of all kinds
grow and bloom everywhere; it is fairy-land become reality, only the fairy
kings and queens and the silver shining little elves do not come out of the
chasms in the rocks to make the illusion complete. The whole idea is like a
poem expressed in art. But where is the art that is not poetry? Everything
that is good, that is high, that is holy, in a word everything that is beautiful
in life is poetry!
We have seen the creator of this wonder place. A deadly dull, commonplace
sjofele baba.[3] Images in plaster, human dragons, and tigers are scattered
among the grass; these too are the creations of his fancy.

It is a pity that at the entrance of the walk that leads to the fairy lake, two
figures of European workmanship have been placed; they destroy the
harmony.

You have been to Batavia to see the exhibition?[4] Yes, to be sure, and what
do you say now of the brown race? What of its art?
Oh I am so proud of my people, they are capable of so much, but you
Hollanders must lead us. And you will do that will you not? We are like
children, and you are our protectors, who must guide us and help us to be
grown up men and women.
[1] To Mevrouw de Booij-Boissevain.
[2] In 1898, four years before this letter was written, there were 261.000 Chinese
settlers in Java. Their constantly increasing number presents a problem to the
Dutch Government. They are seldom day labourers but more frequently artisans,
merchants or agriculturists and by their frugality and industry have attained a
condition of general prosperity, in all competition easily outstripping the more
indolent Javanese, and often accumulating large fortunes.
[3] Sjofele, ragged or dirty; baba, a Chinese coolie. Sjofele baba indicates a
good-natured contempt.
[4] Exposition of Javanese art held at Batavia in that year.

XLI
July 12, 1902.[1]
Father and Mother have both given us their full permission. We had
expected storms, thunder-claps, and lightning flashes. I cannot yet fully
realize it. I had hoped that Father would consent, but I had not dared to
dream that Mamma would stand by him. We have never been estranged
from one another but things are clearer now between Mamma and us, this
has brought us nearer together. I felt calm at first, but when Mother spoke to
us in such a quiet, gentle manner, my calmness vanished. I had so much in
my mind that I had not thought over what I should say, but when it came to
the point, the words fell as themselves from my lips. Who was it that placed
the words ready in my mouth—Who?
There is a power higher and greater than all earthly powers put together.
Good spirits were certainly hovering near putting the words in our mouths
when we stood before her speaking for our ideals. Now I heard Mamma
say, deeply moved, "Oh child, why have you not trusted me?" We have
done wrong, not to have told Mamma everything. Poor, dearest mother, we
are not worthy to kiss her feet.
I wish that I could tell you what Mamma has been to us all these long years,
what she still is. Now we realize for the first time the debt that we owe to
her. We owe her a world full of love and gratitude; we are so thankful that
we are going away from Mamma in peace, in the service of that Good that
she herself knows and understands. We no longer express our joy openly as
formerly, as we did only a little while ago. We are quiet now, but full of
silent gratitude.
I had prepared what I had to say to Father with the greatest anxiety. I do not
know where I got the calmness and composure with which I spoke to him.
My voice sounded strange to my own ears. I was unmoved, but when the
permission for which I was pleading was granted, and I saw how much it
cost my dear father, the ice-crust melted from my heart. I longed to throw
my arms around him and speak words of comfort, but my knees trembled

and my voice refused to do my bidding. I sat before him on the ground and
looked at him with the mist before my eyes. I felt his pain and I suffered
with him. O, some day I will repay for everything.
In my heart the prayer rose "Father, forgive me, O my Father, forgive your
child, she cannot do otherwise."
It was on the twenty-first of June; I chose that day, your birth-day, for the
difficult interview with Father. I wished to have you, my little Mother, with
me in spirit. Good angels surrounded me, my Heavenly Father stood by me
in my struggle against my earthly one. When I was alone once more and
had gained my desire, there was no joy in my heart; there was only pity and
sympathy for the sorrow of one whom I loved. My tears were for him. From
the depth of my soul I prayed: "O grant that from this great sacrifice of my
parents, flowers will spring up and fruit will grow for our land, and for our
people."
On the same day, the twenty-first of June, we wrote to the Heer Van Kol at
Batavia at his request. The letters contained our names, ages, and a
summary of our ideas and wishes.
But we had to have our parents' permission, without that nothing could be
done for us.
And now that this stumbling block is cleared from our way, we stand before
a second—the financial one. Our parents cannot possibly afford the expense
of our education; nor would we ask it of them. Yesterday I received a long
and very earnest letter from Mevrouw Van Kol. If I did not need to keep it
until it was answered, and if my unaccustomed fingers did not cling to it so,
I should like to send it to you, but I shall try to tell you something of its
contents. She has given us more than moral support, she has given us part
of herself. We feel as though we had received a benediction. We are no
longer afraid, we have no anxiety; we are at peace, we trust and we believe.
Of what worth are we! We are no more than the dust of the ground. We feel
no jubilant, boisterous happiness, but a still, quiet joy. O God, we are so
thankful that we have found Thee, that we have come through doubt,
unbelief and materialism.

We have thought much of late. We sought the Light afar off and all the time
it was near; it has always been with us, it is in us.
Our souls have been working and growing, and we did not know it.
Mevrouw Van Kol has drawn back the curtain from before our eyes; we are
more grateful to her for that than for all the other things which have been
done for us.
Before I received her letter, Mamma had said to me, "Who gave you such
ideas?" and I answered "God gave them to me." It was only natural that
Mother should try to hold us back, but when she saw that we would never
change, that we could not change, she said to us with resignation, "Well,
children, I shall try to think that you are called to do this; that God has sent
you for this service."
Mevrouw Van Kol wrote us: "Often we need human beings and their
support, but there are many more times, when it is only God that we need.
He has called each one of us to do our special work, and he gives us
strength and constancy. Believe me, this is what the voice of experience
says. You stand now at the threshhold of life; at the beginning of your work;
when you are in the midst of it, then you too will have had experience. It is
only when we have had experience that we become free and strong, true
helpers and friends of mankind, depending not upon them, but upon
ourselves and upon our Father—God."
Unasked, East and West has sent us assurances of its support and co-
operation. Mevrouw Van Kol sent us the paper with an account containing a
description of the journey of Heer Stoll. And where the writer had spoken
of us, the following had been interpolated by East and West:
"We trust that Heer Van Kol, who has been a member of E & W since it was
founded, will not have neglected to tell her that she can count to the fullest
on our support in her noble struggle."
After she had seen this article, Mevrouw Van Kol, sent a few words to East
and West about us, so that we might be brought nearer to the heart of the
Javanese loving public, which reads E & W.
She has asked permission to publish my entire letter in that paper. I do not
like the idea, but it is in our own behalf, and she writes further: "How can

the friendly public know what is in your heart and learn to appreciate your
aspirations, better than from a candid letter, in which the young Javanese
lays bare her soul to an older woman from whom she asks support and
sympathy? There is not a word in that letter that the public ought not to see,
and I know of no better introduction for you to the circle that has the
welfare of Java and of the Javanese at heart. I can easily understand your
scruples, but overcome them and say "Yes."
I have come to no decision in regard to this. I must first have Father's
consent. Father wants me to keep everything secret at present; if the
Government says yes, then the world can hear of it. It is very true that we
should choose our way with all prudence, but experience has shown us
lately that we gain more by publicity than by secrecy. Even if the
Government should refuse our request, we should lose nothing. How many
petitions are never reached!

Let me say now, to set you at ease, that we will always remain what we are,
but we fervently hope with you, that it may be granted us to make our own
form of religion admirable in the eyes of those who think differently.
We feel that the kernel of all religion is right living, and that all religion is
good and beautiful. But, O ye peoples, what have ye not made of it?
Religion is designed as a blessing, it should form a bond between all the
creatures of God, white or brown, of every station, sex and belief, for all are
children of One Father, of one God. There is no God but the Almighty, say
we Mohammedans, and with us all-believing monotheists, God is the
master, the Creator of everything.
Children of one father and for that reason, brothers and sisters, who must all
love one another, help and support one another. Ah, if this were but
understood. But we are so harnessed down by form that we are sometimes
driven against all religion; the followers of one dogma look down upon the
followers of another, despise, hate and, sometimes, even persecute them;
but enough of this for the present.

Is there a Dutch translation of Lessing's works, and of the life and writings
of Pudita Ramabai? I was still going to school when I heard of this
courageous Indian woman for the first time. I remember it still so well; I
was very young, a child of ten or eleven, when, glowing with enthusiasm, I
read of her in the paper. I trembled with excitement; not alone for the white
woman is it possible to attain an independent position, the brown Indian too
can make herself free. For days I thought of her, and I have never been able
to forget her. See what one good brave example can do! It spreads its
influence so far.
[1] To Mevrouw Ovink-Soer.

XLII
July 28, 1902.[1]
No cloud lasts for ever; neither is there such a thing as eternal sun-shine.
From the darkest night the most beautiful morning is born and here I
console myself. Human life is a true reflection of the life of nature.
What we must pray for day and night is strength. But the rain which makes
the leaf and bud of one plant burst forth, beats another into the earth, where
it rots.

[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

XLIII
August 15, 1902.[1]

Nellie's[2] enthusiastic article in East and West has been copied in several
papers here. One in the Echo also contains an appeal from that paper asking
the sympathy and co-operation of all women in India. The Echo quoted, just
as did Nellie, a few words from my letter, and asked our permission to
publish it all—or a part of it. I think it would be better not to publish
another letter; one is enough and that from Nellie throws full light upon the
question. Hilda de Booj, the daughter of Heer Charles Boissevain, a director
of the Algemeen Handelsblad, asked if she could publish one of my letters
about a Javanese wedding. She sent a copy of this letter home, and her
brother advised me to publish it. Such personal letters will show the
Netherlanders that the Javanese are in some respects their superiors, in
many respects their equals and perhaps in many others their inferiors. So
says Heer Boissevain.
I am busy now with an article for Belang en Recht; I hope they will find
room for it. If not, I shall send it to some other paper or magazine. We are
collecting Javanese fairy tales for Nellie and sister R. is making drawings
for them. Oh, I hear so much wisdom and truth from the mouths of the
people, and it is expressed in such sweet, melodious words. If I only had
your language well under my thumb, I should like to translate the beautiful
inspired music, so that it could be understood and appreciated. We are not
so deep by nature that it will break any one's head to understand our
wisdom. There is no word for selfishness in our language. Happy language
where that word has never penetrated.
I wish that I could teach you my language, so that you could enjoy its
beauties in their original freshness. The deeper I penetrate the soul of our
people, the finer I think it. Among you wise men and poets are drawn
usually from a certain station, and only the upper classes are educated. The
great majority are—may I say it?—crude. There are some superior spirits

among the lower classes; but the many, Stella? You know them better than
I.
But go around with me into Kampong and Dessa; let us visit the small huts
of the poor submerged tenth, let us listen to their speech, seek out their
thoughts. They are an unschooled people always, but music comes welling
from their lips; they are tender and discreet by nature, simple and modest. If
I am ever with you I can tell you much of our gentle people; you must learn
to know and love them as I do. There are so many poets and artists among
them, and where a people has a feeling for poetry, the most beautiful thing
in life, they cannot be lacking in the instincts of civilization.
Every thing that is high and fine in life is poetry; love, devotion, truth,
belief, art, everything that elevates and ennobles. And poetry means so
much to the Javanese people. The least, the very humblest Javanese, is a
poet. And what do you think of the deep respect which children have for
their parents? And of the touching piety of the living toward the dead?
There is no joyful occasion where the dead are not called to our
remembrance, and their blessing and the blessing of heaven invoked. In joy
and in sorrow, we think of our dead always.
And the name of Mother—how holy that is! In hours of pain and doubt, the
pale lips always murmur that name. It is Mother, and again Mother who is
called upon, if we need help, if we need support. The honour of motherhood
lies in this, in the calling of her name in deep, sorrowful hours. Why do we
not call upon our father—why just our mother? Because we feel from
childhood, instinctively that Mother, means a world of love and devotion.
Each object that falls out of our hands is picked up with the saying; "Oh,
Allah, my child." Do I have to explain the meaning of that to you, what it
shows?
Stella, I shall work earnestly at your language, so that some day I may be
such a mistress of it that I can make all that is beautiful among our people
clear and intelligible to the outside world. I want to study my own language
hard as well. I want to teach our people to know that white race as I know it
in its finer, nobler aspects. They must learn of your nobleness, of your
greatness, so that they will honour and love you. I want to do so much that
sometimes I wish that I had a double pair of hands. The will is great, but the

strength is little. And I must not injure my health, that would be the most
stupid thing that I could do. And yet I am often stupid, sometimes sitting
and working till late at night and that is not good for me. I may defeat my
own object if in the end it should do me harm and I could not overcome my
bodily weakness, so I am doing my best to live soberly and sensibly.
[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.
[2] Mevrouw Nellie Van Kol.

XLIV[1]
August 15th, 1902.
Hurrah for our native Art and Industry! They are well started now on the
road to a splendid future. I cannot tell you how pleased I am. We like to
admire our own people and it is so easy to make us proud of them!
The future of our Javanese artists is assured.
Heer Zimmerman was in ecstasies over the work that he saw here by the
despised brown race: Wood carving, the art of the gold smith, and textile
weaving have reached a high degree of excellence. Our artists here have
received a large order from East and West for St. Nicholas. We are
delighted. Now the clever artist can bring out new ideas and express his
poetic thoughts in graceful undulating lines and in ravishing, glowing,
changing colours. Oh, it is splendid above everything else to seek the
beautiful—a spark of God is everywhere, even when things outwardly
appear most evil.
There was once a child who went to an old woman who asked her what she
would like to have, for the little one had neither sweets, nor ornaments, nor
clothes; but the child said "Oh Mother, give me a flower that opens in the
heart."
How do you like that? You must see it in the original—the answer of the
child sounds so sweet. There is a deep meaning in bloementaal.[2]
"Njoewoen sekar melati hingkang mekar hing poendjering ati." That is what
one hears all the time. We are now busy writing down everything interesting
that we hear from the mouths of the people. There is no word for poetry in
our language. We say "bloementaal," and is it not well said.
We are learning songs. Not songs of rejoicing—have you ever heard one of
that kind from a Javanese? The gamelan never rejoices, even at the most

extravagant festivals, its tone is mournful. Perhaps that is well, life is
mournful; not a song of rejoicing.
These pages have been written under the influence of sweet and sad
singing. It is evening, windows and doors are open; the fragrant breath of
the blooming tjempaka beyond our chamber comes to greet us with the cool
breeze that rustles through its branches. I sat upon the floor, just as I do now
at a long low table, at my left was sister Roekmini also writing. To the right
of me was Annie Glazer, she too on the floor. Before me was a woman who
read from a book of songs. They were very beautiful, and the pure, serene,
sonorous tones seemed to carry our souls far away, nearer to the realm of
the blessed. How I wish that you could be sitting there with us in that little
circle. You would have felt with us and dreamed with us. Dreams! Life is
not a dream. It is cold, sober reality, but even reality does not have to be
ugly, unless we make it so.
It is not ugly—it is beautiful. We always have beauty within us. This is the
reason that I wish that in education, emphasis were laid upon character
forming, and first of all upon the cultivation of strength of will; it should be
instilled into the child.
But I am wandering from my subject. This time I wanted to write to you
about our people, and not about education.
There is an old woman here from whom I have gathered many flowers that
spring from the heart. She has already given me much, and has still more to
give, and I wish for more; always more. She is willing, but first I must earn
her treasures, I must buy her flowers—why? Why must I pay?
Solemnly the words sounded from her lips; "Fast a day and a night, and
pass that time awake and in solitude."

"Door nacht tot licht,[3]
door storm tot rust,
door strijd tot eer
door leed tot lust."
sounds like a requiem in my ears.

The meaning behind the words of the old woman is: Fasting and waking are
symbolical; "Through abstinence and meditation, we go toward the light."
No light, where darkness has not gone before. Do you not think that a
beautiful thought? Fasting is the overcoming of the material by the spirit;
solitude is the school of meditation.
As a child I did everything mechanically without question, because others
around me did the same thing; then a time came when my mind began to
question, why do I do that, why is so and so? why—why——? It is endless.
I would not do things mechanically without knowing the reason. I would
not learn any more lessons from the Koran, saying sentences in a strange
language, whose meaning I did not understand and which probably my
teachers themselves did not understand. "Tell me the meaning and I am
willing to learn everything." I was wrong, the Book of Books is too holy to
be comprehended by our poor intelligence.
We would not fast and do other things which seemed senseless to us. Every
one was in despair; we were in despair, no one could explain the things
which were incomprehensible to us. Our God was our conscience, our Hell
and our Heaven too was our own conscience; if we did wrong our
conscience punished us; if we did good, our conscience rewarded us.
The years came and went; we were called Mohammedans because we had
inherited that faith, and we were Mohammedans in name, no more. God—
Allah—was for us a name—a word—a sound without meaning.
Now we have found Him for whom unconsciously our souls had yearned
during the long years. We had sought so far and so long, we did not know
that it was near, that it was always with us, that it was in us.
It had been working in us unconsciously for a long time; but she who
opened the door for which we had sought, was Nellie Van Kol. And who
leads us now, and shows us the way toward Him? It is Mamma. We have
been so stupid all our lives; we have had a whole mountain of treasure
under our hands and we have not known it.
Foolish, headstrong, pedantic persons that we were, we reproach ourselves
now for our own conceit and self sufficiency. We say to console ourselves:
"It has pleased God to open your hearts at last, be thankful for that."

God alone understands the riddle of the world. It is He that brings together
paths that were far asunder for the forming of new roads.
[1] To Dr. Abendanon.
[2] Flower tongue.
[3]

Through night to light,
Through storm to rest
Through strife to peace
Through sorrow into joy.

XLV
August 17th, 1902.[1]
Good morning; here comes sister to prattle to you again. It is a splendid
fresh morning, and I am sitting here in a cosy corner by the window where I
have a view of the garden. Another time I shall try and describe all our
surroundings to you. Our home, which is our doenia (little world) and our
cloister. Now however, I shall continue my talk of yesterday. It is pathetic to
see the joy of our elders over the return of the strayed sheep.
Out of pure joy, an old woman here sent us her collection of books, old
Javanese manuscripts; many written in Arabic characters. We are going to
study Arabic so that we can read, and write it.
You know perhaps that Javanese books are very rare, and hard to find
because they are written with the hand. Only a few of them are printed. We
are reading now a lovely poem in the flower-tongue. How I wish that you
knew our language. I should be so glad if you could enjoy all our fine
things in the original. Have you any desire to learn the Javanese language?
It is difficult—certainly, but it is beautiful. It is a sentient language; often
the words seem to be conscious, they express so much. We are astonished
sometimes, own children as we are of the country, at the cleverness of our
fellow countrymen. Things of which one could never imagine anything
could be made, they express charmingly. Name something in the dark, give
out a subject at random, and a simple Javanese will immediately make a
rhyme that astonishes by its aptness and clearness. This facility belongs
peculiarly to our Eastern people. It is a pity that when the precious gifts
were meted out, your sisters should have been neglected. That is not fishing
for a compliment, we mean it literally. As one can see, though one fairy
gave us wit in step-motherly wise, another sister fairy has made reparation
by endowing us richly with her gift of sensibility. I do not think so very
much of her gift myself, and we have to take good care that this virtue does
not degenerate into a vice. A certain amount of feeling is good; but you will
soon see, if you have not seen already, that it is often hard for your sisters to

keep themselves in the golden middle way. It is very difficult for one who
naturally goes to extremes. Now that you know all my faults, here is a
prayer: try to understand them. Help me to overcome them. Will you not do
that? Your sisters know of things in themselves that are not good.
After having had days of rain, we went out one morning to see how our
flower children were getting along. We were afraid that they would have
suffered from the over-abundant rain, but we found our rose-bushes full of
green buds. The days came and the days went; our roses were full of
luxuriant leaves and of beautiful blossoms. Rain, rain, they needed it, before
they could bear those splendid blossoms.
Rain—rain—the soul needs it in order to grow and to blossom.
Now we know that our tears of today serve only to nourish the seed, from
which another, higher joy will bloom in the future.
Do not struggle, do not complain and curse sorrow when it comes to you. It
is right for sorrow to exist in the world too; it has its mission. Bow your
head submissively before suffering. It brings out the good that is in the
heart. But the same fire which purines gold, turns wood into ashes.
Now I want to tell you how it was that we happened to get into touch with
Nellie Van Kol. Perhaps you have already read something about it in the
paper. One evening in the latter part of April, we had a visit from the Heer
Van Kol. He was sent to us by a Dutch lady, who has much sympathy for
the cause of your sisters. It was one of the most pleasant meetings of our
whole lives. Already, long ago, he had won our esteem through what he has
been to Java, and the Javanese. But the personal meeting secured for him a
place in our love. It is delightful to meet superior people. It was a great
occasion in our lives, when we met your dear parents, it was a turning point
for us; it waked us up to reality. Before that we had only seemed to live, we
had been asleep, always sleeping and dreaming. Now we are alive, fighting
and struggling, hoping, despairing, suffering and rejoicing, weeping and
laughing; that is life. We have climbed to the heights of joy, and we have
descended into the depths of misery. I am happy just to be alive.
I have heard from your mother that you sympathize with our struggles and
ideas; and you have told us so yourself. So it will certainly please you to

know there are others who are interested in our cause; superior people like
Heer Van Kol and his wife.
We told the Heer Van Kol everything. It was to hear about our plans that he
had come, and he promised to support our endeavours with all his might;
just as your father has promised to do. Are you not glad that the cause of
your sisters has found a warm defender in Holland—in the council halls of
the country? He will do everything that he can to help us. He asked us if we
would not write to his wife; she would prove a true, faithful advisor. He
spoke of his wife with such love and respect he called her his guide and his
counsellor. It touched us to hear a man—and such a man—speak so of a
woman. Would that there were more such men—who would see the highest
in woman and honour her for it.
I did not let the grass grow under my feet; immediately after he had left, I
wrote to his wife. Was it instinct—I wonder! for when I was writing to her I
had no feeling at all that it was to an utter stranger, which was the fact. It
had been the same way, when I was talking to her husband. As though she
had been my mother, I blurted out without reserve, just what I felt. It was
easy to be frank with her husband, for he was so modest, so friendly, met us
so cordially, and was so fatherly towards us. I am glad that I followed the
voice of my heart and wrote at once to Mevrouw Van Kol. We received a
letter from her at once—and such a letter! We feel ourselves rich in her
sympathy. God has given us as a gift, the heart of a true friend, and through
that friend's heart, he has found us himself. If I could only tell you how
happy we are.
"We will find the right human friends, when we cease to seek for support
among men, but depend upon ourselves and upon our Father—God." We
are deeply grateful to Nellie for that. Again she says: "The loveliest and best
among us are but weak blundering creatures; nestle on your Father's heart,
he will heal your wounds and dry your tears."
In the days since I have begun this letter something very unpleasant has
happened. Before our acquaintance with Nellie, it would have plunged us
into despair, but now it is different. We do not seek consolation from men—
we hold fast to His hand, and then the darkness becomes light, and the
storm wind a gentle breeze.

We are not afraid, we are never afraid, wherever we may be, there is a
father that watches over us, who judges us with love. We are ready for
anything. For there is no light where darkness does not go before—the
dawn is born out of the night.
Now that we have found Him, our whole lives are changed, our work seems
nobler, higher. What do you think of all this, Edie?
I know one thing for certain, that you are glad for your sisters. I have still
other things to prattle about, and then I must let this letter go; otherwise it
will grow stale, and it is too long already. Perhaps it seems very formidable
to you. Honestly, tell me the truth? Candour must be the basis of our
friendship. Do not be afraid to tell me something because it might give me
pain, when you know that it would be wholesome for me.
From you we did not expect anything else, but that you would not allow the
workmen under your orders to be beaten. We share to the fullest your ideas
in the matter. I cannot bear to see any one struck; it hurts me so to see the
beast in man, unfettered, hot tempered, the man made lower than the beast.
We cannot understand how men, and even women, can go to see an
execution, it is worse than heartless. You know very well that unfortunate
convicts are often beaten with rods; they are cruel people that willingly
encourage the infliction of such punishment. It is bad in the Javanese, but
still worse in the European, when he so debases himself. I have seen, a
certainly not stupid, in fact a highly educated European, at a festival of the
people, let first a child, and after that a woman, and a young girl, make the
acquaintance of his stick in a most frightful manner, because the blunderers
had not been deft enough in getting out of the great man's way. I ground my
teeth together to keep from crying out aloud; each blow pierced me through
the soul.
It is not the idea of pain that makes me abhor bodily punishment, but the
deep humiliation that the victim must feel. And also the harm it does to the
one who punishes. Physical punishment embitters, but never cures. That is
our conviction.
As children of a ruler in a community where the idea is fast rooted that a
Randen Mas or a Raden Adjeng is absolutely a being of a higher order, to

whom a God-like reverence is due from the people, we have oftener than
we would, been among scenes that made us tremble with exasperation. At
such times we are struck dumb and stand still as death, we can neither speak
nor smile, indignation and pity hold our mouths fast closed. An
acquaintance of ours once said "We must do it well; how otherwise will our
little handful be able to keep peace and order among thousands? Had they
not been afraid of us, they would long ago have hunted us from the land,
and driven us into the sea."
Obedience through fear; when will the time come when the God-like rule,
which is called love, will penetrate millions and millions of hearts? One
thousand nine hundred and two years ago the beautiful law of love was
preached, but how many thousand years must pass before love will come
into its own? Not only among the elect, but among the multitudes?
Your mother knows the whole history of our lives. Has she ever told you of
our childhood years, when we lived under the despotic sway of older
brothers and sisters? Among us it is a law, the younger ones must submit to
the older in everything. That was not for sister Kartini; even in her early
years, the desire for freedom had awakened. The result was that I was
somewhat out of harmony with my older brothers and sisters, because I
submitted to them only when I saw a reason in what they thought good. So I
stood there a child of twelve years, alone against a hostile power. Bitter,
bitter tears were wept by us as children.
Do you know who has always been our friend, our help and our support?
Kartono. But most of the time he was not at home, he was at Semarang. Our
friendship is quite old you see; it goes back to our earliest youth. My eldest
sister married, my older brother went away, and then we began a new life.
The watchword was "Freedom, equality and fraternity." We wished to be
loved—not feared.
It is not a boast, but every one knows that our little ones would rather be
with us than with the others. Love is the bond which binds us together. And
how our little ones love us! They have taught us much. Those who
embittered our childish years, were also our teachers, for they taught us to
avoid being like themselves. Another proof that sorrow justifies its
existence.

Those who formerly opposed us, now come to us with love and friendship.
They do not tell us so in words, but deeds bear witness. In every letter, our
sister asks us to come and visit her. Our presence does good, both to her and
to her house, she says always.
God is great, God is powerful! Could not that bit of our life history, become
the life history of two peoples, of the Hollanders and of the Javanese?
Would it not be possible for nothing but mutual love and respect to bind the
Netherlands and Java together? How this happy state of affairs has come
about in our own family, I do not know; I protest, I do not know. Many
times the question has been asked us, but we only know that we have much
love in our hearts and that is the whole secret I believe.
Now, best Brother, I hope sincerely that this long discourse will not frighten
you away from a further correspondence with your sisters. And that you
will take it as a proof of our good intentions, when we say that we look
upon you as our brother and our friend. We hope that many letters from
Sawah Loento with Japara as destination will be forthcoming. Tell us about
everything—your work—your life and your environment.
It is a pity that photography is such a luxury, for we should be glad to take
some peeps, for the benefit of our friends, into typical Javanese customs.
We, as children of the country, can go everywhere here with a freedom that
would not be allowed to you.
[1] To Heer E.C. Abendanon.

XLVI
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 of East and West in 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 the Amsterdammer
to find your delightful article on the influence of books. We are novices,
triflers, our judgment is worth nothing; but now we have an authority on the
subject.
He is a very peculiar man, and it interests him to strike at our innermost
convictions. He likes to try to analyze our deductions. He is a man of many
good qualities, but so weak. Through him, we see still more plainly why a
child should first of all be educated in strength of will. Without strength, all
other good qualities are of little worth.
I cannot tell you how thankful we are that you have shown us the way to
true happiness—to true freedom—to God. Those who serve God are free—
they are bound to no man. To be dependent upon others is to be in bondage
to them. Where is true happiness? It is not far away, but it is so difficult to
find the road thither, we cannot go by tram, by horse or by boat, and no
gold can pay the cost of the journey. It is hard to find the way, and we must
pay the fare in tears and heart's blood and meditation. Where is the road? It
is in ourselves. In the world, we find much that delights us, that transports
us, so that we think we have found the long sought happiness. But even as
the thought comes, we find by bitter experience that what we hold to our
hearts, is empty dross.
True, lasting happiness dwells within, and is called soul's peace. We have
learned of that from you. God is jealous, it is said; He will not suffer us to
pray to any other gods but Him, and He punishes with bitter disillusion
those who create gods for themselves, and pray to them with reverence.
So we think, "Thou shalt have no other gods before me," a command of
love. In it, there lies an earnest admonition that man is man and but a
fallible creature. Alas, if that commandment were only understood, so much
suffering would be spared us.
Mother says that she would like to meet you; to thank you personally for
the miracle that you have wrought in her children in opening their hearts to
the Father of Love. You ask what had turned us into unbelievers; The things

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

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

There is so much charm in the Javanese people. You have been the means
of making us realize it anew in the last few days. This collecting of fables
brings us into contact with many kinds of people, and it is a great pleasure
to find out their ideas. They tell them to us in simple language, but they tell
them so graciously, and we are moved by their truth and wisdom. I wish
that I could send you some of their beautiful thoughts in our own soft
musical tongue. Translated they are no longer what they were.
We tell you too much about our people, do we not? But what a question, it
answers itself. We know that you are glad to know of them and that you
love them sincerely. We believe with you that the essential thing is the
spirit, and not the world. We are so rich, and so happy with the spirit friends
that we have, is it selfish to want to learn from each one of them? To
improve ourselves by correspondence with those who nourish and broaden
our minds?
We think it abominable to receive and to have to answer letters about
nothing, epistles that make one ask "Why were they written?" We are
certainly privileged to be in touch with so many superior minds.
Deep in the heart of Celebes we have a noble friend. We admire him
sincerely for his great work. It is always a holiday for us when we receive a
letter from Dr. Adriani. His letters are as interesting as they are learned. We
met him when we were visiting the Abendanons. Mevrouw brought us
together, knowing how much we should value the acquaintance. When we
are distressed by the heartlessness of others, the mere thought of him is a
consolation. The selfishness of people hurts us; often it is boundless. It is
such a delight to meet now and then, among luke-warm or indifferent
people, many without heart or head either, a being who is all enthusiasm
and heroic strength.

We are so sorry that you did not know us in the full glow of our triple bond.
We were three souls welded together—one in thought and feeling—living
side by side in life as sisters. Storms passed over the young heads, storms
raged in the young hearts!

I think of your "In order to reach our ideals, we must lay down many
illusions." From the death of young spring blossoms, the strong fruit ripens.
It is so with human life—is it not? From the death of young illusions,
sometimes mature ones rise up, which ripen and bring forth fruit.
We have laid down a great illusion. It was a bitter, miserable hour; we
buried it in our heart's blood, but still we felt as though we were being
rushed along as by a river, which was carrying us forward to fresh, strong
life.
We know that many tears must be shed to water the young fruit and bring it
to full growth. We are beginning now to understand what Dr. Abendanon
meant when he told us that through his wife. What was formerly dark to us
has meaning now. Yes, we shall only be able to move slowly. The journey is
long and the way steep and difficult. The idea of personal suffering does not
trouble us, but if it should react upon ourselves, and in that way, impede our
cause, it would be terrible.
I think of a certain evening not long ago, an acquaintance took both of us to
a concert at the play-house at Semarang; it was the first time that we two
had ever, in our whole lives, been alone in the midst of a great sea of
humanity, without sister, without father, without mother; both of us
absolutely alone, with all those strange faces. We had the same thought: "So
shall our life be in the future; we two alone on the great sea of Life! But we
are comforted, there is a God who will watch over us."
On the twentieth of this month, we were at Tandjong Priok, in thought. We
saw the Willem II. steam away from the coast of Java, carrying as a precious
freight, Java's great friend and warm supporter, to the distant Netherlands.
He is already known in the Assembly of that country, so that when he
speaks in the interests of the millions of children in this land, his words will
have authority, and weight. Take him safely Willem II. for the sake of these
lands, and for the sake of his dear family.
And now, true best counsellor, our highly honoured and dearly loved friend,
we thank you many times for your letter. It did us much good in every way.
It encouraged us to earnest meditation-strengthened us and opened up new
vistas of thought to us.

[1] To Mevrouw Van Kol.
[2] Bendoro means master—It is also used to women of high rank.
[3] Jules Le Garcq says of Javanese music that it is full of charm, and produces a
sweet melody incomprehensible to European ears, and that far from being
barbaric it makes one realize that it is an art "très difficile, très compliqué, très
délicat."

XLVII
September 2nd, 1902.[1]
It is presumptuous for us to play "mother," and with children who are older
than we; but what does age matter? Every one needs love, the grey-beard as
well as the child.
Should a woman only exclusively through marriage be able to come to her
right—to the full awakening of the best gifts of her soul? because the
highest and most sacred glory of woman is motherhood. But then must a
woman be obliged to have a child of her own in order to be a true mother—
a being who is all love and sacrifice? If that is true, how pitifully shallow is
the idea of the world that it is only a piece of oneself that one can love
better than oneself. There are so many who are called mothers only because
they have brought children into the world, but beyond that they are not
worthy of the name. A woman that gives all the love that is in her heart to
others, with no thought of herself is, in a spiritual sense-mother. We set the
spiritual mother higher than the physical.
We hope and pray fervently that later if it is granted us to realize our ideals,
and we stand at the head of a school, our children will not call us "mother"
as a matter of form, but because they feel that we are mothers.

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

books are written in poetic metre, flower-tongue as we say, and they are
meant to be sung.
Doors and windows were open. Outside the chamber there bloomed a
tjempaka tree; its perfume came to us on the soft wind. The voice was
gentle and tender, the song was sweet to our listening ears. It carried our
souls back to the far distant past, to the golden age of barbaric splendour,
and of men and women who were wise and beautiful and strong.
We bit our pen-holders absently—much oftener than we made them fly over
the white paper, and amid these wholly Javanese surroundings, there
between brown children of the Sunny Land, sat a pale daughter of the West.
Oh how gladly would we have you, even so, among us.
We have learned the songs too, and if we were not bashful, we would sing
and dream before you.
Yesterday Annie did something typically Javanese. She was so anxious to
go away from Japara, we said to her "Ask the help of the Soenan of
Kantingan, promise him an offering of flowers, if your wish comes true."
So she did.
Day before yesterday evening we spoke of it, and the next morning she
went with us to make her offering. We went there with a band of priests to
the holy grave, and we took flowers and incense with us.
Anneka went with us into the building over the grave and sat with us on the
ground at the foot of the tomb. Incense burned, and a mystic buzzing rose at
first softly but gradually louder from the priestly choir. It was solemn and
impressive. We sat with lowered heads and listened to the murmur of the
mystic prayer, while blue clouds of incense rose upwards.
One of the priests creeping forward on the ground brought Anneka's flowers
and laid them reverently on the grave of the Soenan, and after that on the
other graves. Next to me I heard a snickering. It was Anneka! Barefooted as
a mark of reverence, she had come with us into the building. For it is our
custom to look upon the dead as holy, and to show them reverence.
We then went to the little stream behind the churchyard to wash our feet.
We asked the priest for Heaven's blessing for Anneka.

Dearest, we should so love to have you here, so that you could live our
native life with us. There is so much that is touching in our Javanese life;
especially in the honour that we show to our dead and to our parents.
Nothing ever happens in our lives of any importance, either of joy or of
sorrow, that we do not think of our dead. Anneka will remember Japara
when she sits high and dry at Buitenzorg, although she may be a thousand
times better off there than here. They that have known Japara; who have
seen its soul, can never forget it. They must think of it again and again,
whether it is with love or whether it is with hate.
Yesterday at midday we went to the wood-carving works; it was very
interesting. There were fifteen people, men and apprentices, at work. The
work they do is severely simple but it is in the highest degree effective.
Sister Roekmini must naturally go to work with them, and she sat down
with the wood-carvers on a bench as naturally as though she had been there
all along.
We have made the acquaintance of Frits Reuter; he is a writer who draws
one's heart. He is so wholesome and spontaneous. What do you say to
reading one book through from seven o'clock in the evening to three o'clock
in the morning? It is not sensible, but it can be forgiven when one is in good
company. If it was your intention by your present, to make us love your
great poet of the people, then you should certainly be satisfied with your
work.

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

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

XLVIII
October 11th, 1902.[1]
I feel some anxiety as to who will carry on our work in directing the wood
carving after we have gone away. Our little sisters are too young, and there
is the financial responsibility as well. If a European comes here, naturally
our artists will be exploited merely for his own profit; the one who devotes
himself to this work should be disinterested and have in his heart a love for
art and a love for Java.

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

I do not want to promise you anything, Stella, for I am not sure that I should
be able to keep my promise. Do you think Modjowarno so frightful? Which
would you prefer, that we should go crazy here at home, or that we seek
healing for the wounds in our souls there? If we are disappointed in our
plans, we are determined that we will not remain any longer cloistered and
imprisoned here for petty, futile reasons. We will not submit to conditions
which we detest and despise with all our hearts. The enemy abroad does not
frighten us, but the enemy in our own country eats into our souls. Nothing
can help us but God.
Now do not say that you will be cast down and sad, when you receive a
letter telling you to address me at Modjowarno. The idea has no terror for

me. It is true that we shall go there with lacerated hearts, but that will not be
the fault of Modjowarno, and even there, all will not be lost, Stella. You
have often encouraged me to use my pen—I shall still have that, and there I
shall have nothing to lose and nothing to venture save myself. Here I should
venture much, if I said what I really think. If I became a teacher, I should be
striking my own calling dead, because those whom I had offended would
gird on their armour and hunt me down.
I have already said that we would not go to Modjowarno, save with deeply
wounded souls. Do you know the effect that would have upon my pen?
Nothing speaks so to the heart like suffering. And even I have made eyes
grow wet. You know me too well, I hope, to accuse me of vanity when I say
that. It is only to show you how very much the worth of a pen rises when
one has heart's blood for ink.
A few months ago, some one wholly unknown to me burst out crying when
she read some words of mine. She felt how I had suffered when the words
flowed from my pen. She was so affected that she wished to begin work at
once for the alleviation of the misery of which I had written. The next day
she even offered to help us; alas, only to withdraw the offer a few days
later, through the working of reason.
People think that they are pleasing me, when they assure me that I write
"splendidly." What does it amount to? I want what I write to make a lasting
impression, Stella, and I can only do that when I have had experience.
When my heart has been written upon, then—only then—will what I say be
of worth.
[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.

XLIX
October 12th, 1902.[1]
During the last year I often heard something about myself, which distresses
me. I am a coquette. Do not spare me, but answer outright; am I a coquette?
and if so, in what way? I am seriously troubled, for I dislike anything that is
inconstant.
Some one, no slanderer, says that I speak with my eyes. Is that true? I have
asked my sister to watch me well, and to tell me what they see in me that is
strange, what there is in the play of my eyes. And my truth-loving little
sister says—she is always conscientious—that my eyes dance as if they
were saying much when I talk long, never mind with whom. Believe me,
when I say that I do not do it intentionally; that I have no thought of
pleasing; and if what she says is true, it is unconscious and in spite of
myself.
It is a strange sensation, when one has always thought oneself a serious,
candid girl, to hear all at once that one is a coquettish creature. I was
astonished and distressed; I had never given the matter a thought, and
would not be guilty of such conduct knowingly.
I am told that I must modestly (hypocritically) cast down my eyes. I will not
do that; I will look men, as well as women, straight in the eyes, not cast
down my own before them. I know very well that we shall be made to
promise, perhaps under oath, when we go from here, that we will not bring
to our families the terrible disgrace of sharing our love and sorrow with a
European; on that point they can be at peace.
We would never think of such a thing; inevitably it would be wreaking
destruction upon the whole cause. For our own sakes, we could not; we,
who wish to set ourselves up as examples.
You know how very little I care for what "they say," but in this case it shall
never be said, "There, you have the whole thing; see what comes of it.

When a man gives his daughters European educations, they marry
Europeans." That would do incalculable injury to the cause, and that may
not be.
And yet actually what do we do but share our love and sorrow with
Europeans? What am I doing at this moment? Do not Europeans live with
us in our inmost hearts? And do we not share the inner life of Europeans?
Much, yes everything can be taken away from me, but not my pen, that will
always be mine. Do not let them provoke us too much, the most enduring
patience can give way. We may be driven to the use of that weapon, even
though it should rebound and wound ourselves. You may be assured that we
will make good use of it if we go to Modjowarno.
We long for comfort from our true friends, we have grown cold; we want to
warm our frozen hearts on your hearts. We complain about the egoism of
others, but what of ourselves? It is pure egotism to share our pain and
suffering with others, and to ask for love when we know that for us love is
inseparable from sorrow.
Do you not think we have gone back sadly? We have grown hard and
unfeeling, and we are often afraid of ourselves.
O God, give us strength, help and support us; and from you, dear, I ask
forgiveness for the sorrow I have caused you by this letter. But to be silent
is not good—it is not honest. Forgive me, and love your brown children.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

L
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 the Echo is 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.

LI
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.

LII
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.
[1] To Heer E.C. Abendanon.
[2] Indo-European used commonly to denote a many-mixed blood.

[3] Sinjo from the Portuguese "Senhor," indicating master, used toward natives
with European blood.

LIII
December 12th, 1902.[1]
We think that your little table is the most beautiful of all the carved work
that our Singo has done. A short while ago he was saved as though by a
miracle, from a great calamity. Eleven houses near his own were burned to
the ground. The cocoanut tree in his little garden was all ablaze, but by
great good fortune his house remained uninjured. The whole village ran out
to see the miracle and asked the lucky owner of the only remaining house,
what "Ilmoe"[2] or "Djamat"[3] he had to protect him. For they thought, of
course, that he had saved his house through some magic spell. No, he had
no "Ilmoe" or "Djamat," nor magic spells, he had only "Goesti Allah" who
had spared him for his own purposes. The day after the fire, the man came
to us, and fancy! he thanked us for the preservation of his dwelling. He
insisted that it was the power of our prayers for him that had kept his house
from misfortune. Such naïve and simple faith is touching.
I asked myself if it would be right to take away from these poor souls the
simple faith that makes them happy. What could I give them in its stead?
The stupidest person can tear down, but it is quite another matter to build
up.
We have found so many charming qualities in our humble friends.
We were turned away for a long time from all religion, because we saw so
much uncharitableness under its mantle. We learned, at first slowly; that it
is not religion that is uncharitable, but man who has made what was
originally Godlike and beautiful, bad and ugly. We think that love is the
highest religion, and must one be a Christian in order to love according to
that Heavenly command? For the Buddhist, the Brahmin, the Jew, the
Mohammedan and even the Heathen can lead lives of pure love.
A little while ago I received a letter from Dr. Adriani in which you would be
interested. I told him what you had done for us, and he is so glad for our
sakes. "What Mevrouw Van Kol has made you see," he wrote, "is the

substance of all religion, the recognition of God as a person, not as
goodness, but the Good."
There are many earnest things in his letter, I wish that I could read it to you
and talk about it with you; I must answer it. Somewhere he says, "But I can
see no other way, Christianity alone does not bring one happiness, only the
personal love of God does that, of which Christianity is the symbol."
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.
[2] Magic power to obtain what one wishes.
[3] A talisman which protects from calamity.

LIV
January 14th, 1903.[1]
My brother; my little brother, will positively not become priaja, and enter
the service of the Indian Government. If Mevrouw has told you something
of my letters, you will know that I am not sorry, but am rejoicing with
brother in his decision. We think it splendid that brother has not for an ideal
that which thousands of his fellow countrymen have always looked upon as
most desirable, as the very height of good fortune—to be a little Prince,
glittering with buttons, under a gold striped parasol. It is a great joy to us
that pomp and ceremony have no charm for him, and that he has realized so
young that he wishes to go another way from the one that has always been
followed, and trodden flat, by the feet of thousands.
I should have liked for him to dedicate himself to the service of suffering
humanity, and to have studied medicine. That is perhaps part selfishness in
me, I should have been glad to see him become a doctor because it is such a
beautiful calling, and it would have inevitably taught him to understand our
ideals. He could have done so much to further the mutual respect between
the European and native elements. He could have taught his people to trust
the European methods of healing, and he could have called the attention of
the European world to the simple native methods whose value has been
many times proven.
I spoke to little brother about the Doktor-Djawa School, but he had no
inclination in that direction, and we do not wish to press him.
[1] To Dr. Abendanon.

LV
January 17, 1903.[1]
For three longs weeks not a drop of rain has fallen. It is boiling hot as it has
never been before, even in the dryest Oostmoesson.
Father is in despair; the young rice in the fields is turning brown, Oh, our
poor people! So far they have had enough to eat here and they do not know
the most frightful of all calamities which a land can suffer—Famine. But
what has not been, may be; and this great drought in the time of the wet
season presages anything but good. What will happen if it keeps up? For
several mornings the wind has blown as it usually does first in May. Has the
turning point been reached, has the dry season begun?
It is frightful, every one looks on helpless. It is hard to see everything that
has been sown and planted turn brown and die, without being able to turn a
finger to help it, and the great heat harasses the body too; one feels dull and
listless.
What do you think of such a complaint from a child of the sun? Oh, how
frightful for the people who are working out in the fields, if for us in here it
is so scalding hot, and this is the wet season (Westmoesson). Do not be
chary with your cold; could you not spare a little of it? You may take as
much of our warmth as you wish.
[1] To Mevrouw Van Kol.

LVI
January 27th, 1903.[1]
I have been thinking of the time that is past, the old time when I sat with
your father and your dear mother by the sea; those were moments of
delight, such as one never forgets. The last time too that we sat with your
father by the shore, and he talked to us of our plans, will always live in our
memory.
It was splendid to speak heart to heart with one whom we knew to be such a
noble, sincere friend. And what was the result; I could not sleep the whole
night, I tossed about in my bed with your father's earnest affectionate words
still in my mind and in my heart. That was what we had needed, what we
had longed for; an earnest affectionate word, spoken face to face. The next
morning early, your father had to go away, to our great sorrow. We went
with his Excellency in the carriage past the way where we had talked on the
sand; the result of that talk is that very soon, with the full consent of our
parents, we are going to present a petition to the Government through the
Governor General, asking it to give us an opportunity to help the Javanese
woman of the future by completing our education at Batavia. Are you not
startled, Brother? I do not know what you will think—that we are fickle? To
strive with all our might at first to go to Holland, move heaven and earth to
get there, and when at last, thanks to the work of our friends, we can go—to
say "I am going to stay." What do you think of such instability? But is it not
better to turn! back and acknowledge one's mistake than to persist in a
wrong course for the sake of consistency?
Do you know when that idea of going to Holland first took such a fast hold
of us? It was in the December days of 1901, when we suffered without
knowing why. Then there came to us a wild longing to go away—far away.
Away, away—away into another atmosphere—to another land, where we
should breathe a different air, and all our soul's wounds should be healed,
where we should be strengthened in spirit and perhaps also in body.
Strengthened and born anew, we would come back to work for the

regeneration of our people. While we were away, people would cease to
think of us. Alas, that it would seem so good to be forgotten. We should be
forgotten by those for whom we would work, whom we so longed to help.
O, poor illusions! You know that it has always been one of our dearest
dreams to be educated for our work, in Holland. But Father's last, severe
illness has made us think deeply. We understood at last as we stood over his
sick bed how fast his dear heart was bound up in us. But I still ask myself,
should we have come to this decision if your father had not been here and
talked with us? I do not know, but there is no doubt that our parents have to
thank your father for much, and we ourselves, are very grateful to his
Excellency too.
Sister and I have talked and pondered over your father's words for a long
time. The result is that our going to Holland is still in the air—has flown to
the moon, but that we hope to go to Batavia with all speed.
This is all personal. More important, is the effect which our decision will
have upon our cause. In the first place if we go to Batavia, we could begin
to study at once. While if we go to Holland, we must wait a long time. I
think always of your father's words, "Why not do what can be done at once
—something will have been accomplished then, while in Holland
everything would lie far in the future." Your father spoke of the wounded
man who called for help; some one comes to him and says, "No friend—I
cannot help you now, I must first study, and learn how wounds should be
dressed." Then the some one goes away, and when at last he had learned the
art of binding wounds, the man who had called to him, had long been dead.
Then your father spoke of a pearl lying deep in the sea. You know that it is
there but you do not know precisely where. You wade out into the sea and
try to find it. The water comes up to your lips, some one calls to you and
says-"Friend do not do that, go no further. The water already comes up to
your lips, if you are drowned, still you will not have the pearl; get into a
boat, measure and fish for it."
Your father said we could open a school at once without having to pass a
single examination. There is nothing in the law that compels one to pass
examination before teaching native girls. We could get some European
teachers to help us, that would be as we wished, but do you think it would

be well for us to open it at all without adequate preparation? It is true that in
"Our School" (how pleasant that sounds) we want to give more of a moral
than an academic education. If it is not erected by the Government we
would not have to follow the prescribed paths, and we want the whole idea
of our school to be the education of children, not as though they were in a
school, but in a home, as a mother would bring up her own children.
It must be like a great home community. Where the inmates all love one
another and learn from one another, and where the mother is not a mother in
name but in spirit, the educator of the child's soul and body.
We have thought much about that other idea of your father's; but in this
way; if we are not able to study, but have to remain at home, could we not
take the little daughters of regents here, as many as the kaboepaten would
hold? Let them go to school outside, but give them their moral education
here with us. We could lead the young hearts through play and help to form
the young characters. During the hours when those children would be at
school, we could take other little children of native chiefs here in our own
neighbourhood and teach them elementary branches, handiwork and other
things. All the while unperceived, we would be knocking at the little hearts
and trying to get nearer to the little souls. But if we find that we can open a
school, then we had rather study first. Do you not think we are right,
Brother? The school would be at Magelang or at Salatiga. Your father has
talked with ours about it, and there is no objection at all. That would be
almost as good as going to Holland. It would be splendid—Hé Brother?
Our grandfather in the past brought up the sons of other nobles. Grandfather
had a tutor for his children, and he took the sons of the Pangerang of Solo
and of a regent of middle Java to be educated with his own sons. So you see
there is nothing new under the sun; our idea which is called startlingly new,
is old, inherited from our grandfather. Our plan of education—our spirit,
has descended from him. Grandfather was a pioneer; we are only carrying
on his work—they were good people, both grandfather and grandmother.
Your father has told us that according to form a note must be presented in
which our plans, and ideas are set forth plainly and exactly. It must be
written from the heart, not at all as though it was intended for the Governor
General. We should like for your father to read the note first, but his

Excellency does not think it necessary. We must write simply, just as we
feel.
[1]To Heer E.C. Abendanon.

LVII
February 1st, 1903.[1]
I must thank you once more for your advice. Your talk did us a tremendous
amount of good. Why should I not acknowledge to you that we had never
looked at things in that light before, and had never dreamed that if we went
to Holland we might endanger our own cause. Our "Friends" would be only
too glad to spread abroad the report that we had grown to be wholly
"blanda,"[2] and many parents would shudder at the mere thought of
entrusting their children to us. You have opened our eyes; we are grateful
from our hearts.
This morning we were taking a drive and we witnessed a naïve example of
native faith. It was out in the fields. Men and animals were uniting in prayer
to the All-Highest to bathe the thirsty earth with blessed rain.

In the foreground sat the priest and santries,[3] behind the priestesses in
white garments and around them hundreds of men, women and children.
Sheep, goats, horses and buffaloes were bound to stakes. A priest stood
before them and led the service, praying in a loud voice. Most of the people
fell in with "Amin-amin," in which chorus the Meeting of the sheep was
blended.
This ceremony is called "sembajang istira." They prayed for three days and
three nights. You can imagine the delight and gratitude of the people,
because now it has rained. Their prayers were effectual and do you know
what they say now? We cannot get the idea out of their heads, that we had a
share in it.
Before this at other places the people had held "sembajang istira," but never
a drop of rain fell. Chance willed it that we should be present at the
solemnities here, so our simple people draw the conclusion that we gave
strength to that last prayer and supplication which, plainly, was heard and
answered.

Such childlike, confiding faith is touching.
I wish so often that I had a photographic apparatus and could make a
permanent record of some of the curious things that I see among our people.
There is so much which we should like to preserve, so that we could give to
outsiders a true picture of us Javanese.
It would mean so much more than mere written description if they would
see the whole scene on the paddi—the buffaloes and the botjok-angongs[4]
included. I could then write what I, as a child of Java, think and feel about
these things.
You know that I am always glad to be able to do anything for you, and
when you ask a favour of me, it is a joyful occasion. I am also glad to do
what I can for "East and West." I feel that I am only doing myself a service,
for it is for our people, and I and my people are one. So dispose of my time
as you will, with a quiet mind, and do not be afraid that you will be asking
too much of me. I only ask your forbearance when something that you have
ordered does not come quickly enough.
I have talked with the goldsmith about going to Solo to learn to work in
tortoiseshell there. He is eager to go; already he can make little combs, he
has the tools for that, but he does not understand polishing very well; he
could learn that at Solo. He is also anxious to learn to work in horn and
mother of pearl. That too could be learned there.
But the revival of our art is just beginning and naturally all of these things
cannot be done at once. I have had a pleasant letter from Dr. Pijzel, one of
the editors of Eigen Haard. I also received some copies of my article on
wood-carving. The illustrations are reproduced beautifully. Do you not
think so? I have one set of them made on very fine paper. Do you know
what I think so splendid? That the very first time that I write for the public
under my own name, "Moedertje" should introduce me. Though it is even
as pleasant that the little article should be in demand. We have heard that in
the Minahassa, a native girl has "crazy" ideas just as we have. You see we
are not the only simpletons. If the nobles here disdain us, and we are
rejected by the people too, then we can fly away and seek that sister soul.
Far away from the whirl of the markets, in some forgotten place, together

we will find work for the head, the heart and the hand. In the great wide
world somewhere there must be a place for us.
My eldest sister has been here, but she went away yesterday, not back to
Kendal, but to Koedoes to visit her mother-in-law and to try to arouse the
latter's interest in our cause. Some one goes now to plead for us, who
herself once bitterly opposed us. When she was coming here, we did not
plan an elaborate speech that would soften her heart. We talked to her
simply, just as we felt, and it was sweet and strange when our sister with
moist eyes said tremulously "Good, may you carry out your plans and meet
with success. I shall pray God to bless you."
We asked her, "Will you still cling to us if others revile us and condemn
us?"
And she answered, "Even the loudest talkers will be silent some day." Sister
thinks that her mother-in-law will help us, and that her husband too will
have sympathy for us.
But how are things here at home? Formerly we must never speak to others
about the subject nearest our hearts, now they bring it up themselves. We
talked not long ago with a stranger about several things. My heart beat with
joy and happiness when I saw Father standing next to me the whole time. "I
am his child in spirit too," sang my heart! Father invited the stranger to
come here so that we could exchange our thoughts and ideas. He thought it
would be good for us. Oh is my dream to really become reality? Are we
going on our way with our parents' full blessing? Before we had an
opportunity to write to the Heer Sijthoff, we received a very cordial letter
from him last week, reproaching us for our obstinacy. A few lines further
on, he declared that we had forced his respect and promised to give us his
support. When we need it, we have only to ask him.
[1] To Dr. Abendanon.
[2] Blanda: European.
[3] Those who live pious lives and scrupulously observe all forms of religion. A
student of theology.
[4] Boys who herd buffaloes.

LVIII
March 4th, 1903.[1]
I have been laid low by sickness; for days they watched over me anxiously
—I was in the most frightful pain. Thank God, that is now behind me. And
the suffering is a thing of the past. I was freed from my pain by such a
strange remedy; we have preserved it and given it to all of our family. Later,
it may do our children good.
Yesterday I began work again. And today for the first time, I went driving.
Father's pleasure was touching. Naturally I sat next to him, and he held on
to me tightly as if he were afraid of losing me. It was a delightful hour, the
precious memory of which will be with me always.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

LIX
March 9th, 1903.[1]
We have received word that the tortoiseshell will be here before many days.
And then the goldsmith will go with it to Solo. Now all three branches of
the artistic industry of my birth place are growing and thriving. And we are
still looking for others that can be spurred back into life. The people know
that our aim is their well-being, and they show their appreciation by
working with eagerness and enthusiasm. I am thankful that they understand
that we have their good always before our eyes; otherwise everything that
we might do for them would be useless.
It is splendid to see life waking and stirring around us. They are beginning
to grow vegetables on a large scale, even in the Kampong, around the
Malay camp. Everything goes so well. The goldsmith has taken more boys
as apprentices, and there are some clever youths that want to be educated
for the wood-carving trade also. I have noted one thing with great pleasure;
among the apprentices, there is a boy from the kota, and consequently not a
child of Blakang-Goenoeng, the wood-carving village. We have to seek out
other apprentices, but this boy from the kota came of himself and asked us
to take him.
The little ones here will carry on our work when we are gone. We can lead
them from a distance so long as they need leading.

Some one complained to us about ingratitude, among our inferiors. We told
him that if he were distressed at the ingratitude of the people, it was his own
fault.
He looked at us with his great eyes and said; "My fault, when people are
ungrateful to me?"

"Yes, your fault, when you allow yourself to be distressed by it. For we
must never do good with the thought of gratitude before our eyes. We must
do good, simply because it is good, and because only in so doing will we
fulfil ourselves." I believe that to be happy ourselves, and to make others
happy, we must understand. The more we understand the less bitterness we
feel, and the easier it is to be just.
He asked us too, "What would happen if you should meet some one in
whose presence your heart would beat?"
"I should be happy and thankful because that would indicate that I had met
a companion soul, and the more companion souls we find, the better it is for
our cause, and that of those whom we love."
"You will never meet a companion soul."
That was said forcefully. What did he mean? Does he place our men too
low—or me undeservedly high. If he but knew, I had just received an
enthusiastic letter from a young—and to me unknown—companion soul. I
shall send the letter to you. It is from a student of the Native Artisans
school. A spontaneous expression of sympathy about the article that
appeared in Eigen Haard which you induced me to write. It is so like a
young boy—young in its glowing enthusiasm, but through it a spirit speaks
that is far from commonplace; there is candour in every line.
That is a luxury which writers can enjoy, unknown people feel that they are
friends when they strike a sympathetic chord. I love to think that it was you
who induced me to make my own name known to the public, and such an
introduction from one whom I admire deeply is like a benediction.
If that article has met with success, I attribute it to the fact that it first saw
the light through your hands. There were many things that had to be
included in that introduction, but in none of them did it miss its mark. Its
success has meant much to our artists, and since its appearance many
questions have come to me about our wood-carving.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

LX
April 25th, 1903.[1]
It is stupid and unpardonable that we did not write to you as soon as the
great decision was made; that we were not to eat the fruit of the noble work
which you and others have done for us. No one could be more surprised at
this determination than we ourselves. We had been prepared for anything,
but we had never expected that we would say of our own free will "We
want to stay." But do not think of us, think of the cause and what will be
best for that; it is there we must rest our case.
Do not think that our feelings have changed, they have not. When our
request was on the way to the Governor General, we believed firmly that
for the sake of our future pupils, education in Europe was an absolute
necessity. But after that another truth was impressed upon us: "At this time,
it would be far better for the cause if we remained in India."
You know that it is our dearest wish to complete our educations in Europe.
Can you realize what it will cost us to give up the idea on the very eve of its
realization? We have been through a terrible struggle. But we threw aside
our own desires, when we found that the cause could be served best in a
different way. We saw this as soon as we ceased to think of ourselves, but
only of our cause.
The people for whom we wish to work, must learn to know us. If we went
away, we should become as strangers to them. And when after some years,
we came back, they would see in us only European women. If the people do
not like to trust their daughters to European women, how much less would
they be willing to trust them to those who were worse in their eyes,
Javanese turned European.
Our aim is our people; and if they should be set against us, of what good
would the help of the Government be? We ought to strike as quickly as
possible, and place before the public as an accomplished fact a school for
native girls. Just now they are talking about us, and we are known over the

whole of Java. We must strike while the iron is hot. If we went away,
interest would grow luke-warm and after a time dwindle away altogether.
Now we can make ourselves personally known to our people. Seek to win
their sympathy, teach them to trust us. If we had their sympathy and their
trust then we should be at peace.
We have not entirely given up the idea of going to Holland, Stella. We could
still go, always, and if we should go from Batavia, it would be better than
from here. Our parents would then be accustomed to having us at a
distance, and after they had once gotten used to the idea, it would not be so
hard for them, if the distance were made greater.
For us too that would have a good side. Consider this, we have never been
away from home, and if we were suddenly taken from our warm little nest,
from our own country, and placed in another environment far from all who
loved us, the change would be great.
But that is only a side issue. We knew that all along, and had never seen
anything against it. The main question is the danger to our undertaking
itself. We had never looked at the other side, from defiant courage, or
courageous defiance, call it what you will—carried away by our
enthusiasm, we thought little—or not at all—of the temper of the public.
Yes, we thought it to our credit to defy it, and to hold our own ideas high
against the world. Not disturbing ourselves one way or another about its
approbation, so long as we ourselves were convinced of the holiness of our
cause. We still think that is right, but in this instance, we may not live up to
our ideal. For now everything depends for us upon the good will of the
public. Always we wish to work for the good of our people, and we must
not set them against us by crushing with relentless hands the ideas upon
which they have thriven and grown old through the centuries.
Patience, the wise have said to us all along. We heard them but did not
understand. Now we are beginning to understand. Stella, now we know that
the watchword of all reformers must be Patience. We cannot hasten the
course of events, we only retard them when we try to push forward too
hastily. If the public should be aroused against us, the whole cause would be
held back. People would be unwilling to give their daughters a liberal

education, for education would be held responsible for such impossible
creatures as we.
Patience! patience, even unto eternity. Stella, I was so miserable when this
truth penetrated at last. We must curb ourselves in our enthusiasm, we will
not pass our goal without seeing it. Mevrouw Van Kol wrote to us, that
before we can realize an ideal, we must first lose many illusions. The first
illusion that we have thrown aside is not to give ourselves to the public
frankly just as we are. No, that may not be. The public must not know what
we are really fighting—the name of the enemy against which we take the
field must never, never be cried aloud. It is—polygamy. If that word were
heard no man would trust his child to us. I have struggled against this, it is
as though we began our work with a lie.
We hoped to make ourselves known just as we were, and that even so, from
conviction that we were right, parents would send their children to us. It
would be impossible.
We have not yet begun our work and yet we have seen our illusions dwindle
away one by one. Oh Stella, do not make the loss of this great illusion
harder to us by your sorrow. It is hard enough as it is. You have always
known that it was my dearest wish to go to your country and to gather
wisdom there for my own people. Let us never speak of it again.
I thank you, in the name of my parents too, a thousand times for all that you
have done for us and—for nothing. No, Stella, your work is not lost, the
work of you all. Though we may make no use of its fruits now, it will be of
great good to our cause, attention will have been drawn to it.
Before this, questions relating to the education of the Javanese people, have
always been brought up by those who had some interest of their own at
stake.
Now the interest is free from ulterior motive; would that have been the case
if you had not drawn the attention of the liberal to us? Would the
Government have been ready to help us if you had not worked for us? I
thank you a thousand times for your great love. In the name of my people, I
thank you sincerely. Great good will come of your work for the Javanese.
Be sure of that.

Our plan is, if our request is answered favourably, to go at once to Batavia.
Roekmini will study drawing, handiwork, hygiene and nursing. In drawing,
she will have lessons from the teacher at the Gymnasium, and she will take
the course in hygiene at the Dokter-Djawa School. I shall take a normal
course, continuing the same studies, with which I have already been
working here for several months.
[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.

LXI
July 4th, 1903.[1]—[2]
Whatever the future may have in store for us, I pray that we may always
remain confident and gay and full of faith.
I have said so often to others, "do not despair, do not curse your cross,
weary one. Through suffering comes power." Now it is my fate to apply
what I have been preaching.
But I will not think any more of strife or suffering, of care and of anxiety. It
makes my head so tired, and my heart so sick. I will smell the perfume of
flowers and bathe in the sunshine; they are always here to comfort us.

Moeske, we have begun our work. We thank your husband for his advice to
begin at once, just as we were. We had not dared to hope that it would begin
so easily.
We started with one pupil, quickly the number jumped to five, and
tomorrow morning eight will come to the kaboepaten, and soon there will
be ten. We are so pleased when we look at our little children. They are such
a fresh unspoiled little band; they always come exquisitely neat, and they
get along so amiably together. They learned to trust us quickly; while they
pay all due respect to form, they are still as free and unrestrained before us
as though there were no such thing as rank or difference of degree.

The day before yesterday the djaksa of Karimoen Djawa[3] brought a
daughter to me. Picture it Moeske, they send their daughters away from
home, and let them eat with us here in a strange place.
Yesterday, a young mother came to me in great distress; she said that she
lived too far away, if it were not so, she would be so glad to come and study
with us herself. As that cannot be, she wants to provide for her little

daughter, the education which she has not had the opportunity to gain. Her
child is not yet a year old; as soon as she is six years old, her mother will
send her to us, wherever we may be.
The children come here four days in the week, from eight to half past
twelve. They study, writing, reading, handiwork and cooking. We teachers
do not give lessons in art unless the pupils show a special aptitude for it.
Our school must not have the air of a school, or we that of school-
mistresses. It must be like a great household of which we are the mothers.
We will try and teach them love as we understand it, by word and deed.
In our own youth, we were guided by that simple precept which is
universally understood: "Do not unto others what you do not wish done
unto yourself."
Mevrouw Van Kol has told us much of your Jesus, and of the apostles Peter
and Paul.
Of whatever belief or race a man may be, a great soul is a great soul—a
noble character, a noble character. I have read "Quo Vadis," and I have been
thrilled with admiration for the martyrs to their faith, who amid the bitterest
suffering, still looked faithfully and trustingly toward the Highest and
proclaimed His praise in beautiful song. I have suffered with them and I
have rejoiced with them.
Do you know "We Two," by Edna Lyall? That is a very fine book. It treats
of atheism and Christianity, of true Christianity and of its frightful
perversion, of which, alas, there is so much in the world. The atheist, Luke
Raeburn, is a great figure, and Erica Raeburn too is a noble character, who
from a zealous atheist becomes a sincere and believing Christian. They
were a father and daughter who loved each other devotedly, and depended
each upon the other.
We read too the "Soul of a People." That is about Buddhism and is also a
beautiful book. We are anxious now to read something about Judaism (do
you not say that?). Perhaps Zangwill's book "Dreams of the Ghetto" will be
what we seek.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

[2] Written with a pencil after an illness.
[3] A group of islands off the coast of Japara.

LXII
August 1, 1903.[1]
A few words to announce to you, as briefly as possible, a new turn in my
life. I shall not go on with our great work as a woman alone! A noble man
will be at my side to help me. He is ahead of me in work for our people; he
has already won his spurs while I am just beginning. Oh, he is such a
lovable, good man, he has a noble heart and a clever head as well. And he
has been to Holland, where his bride would so gladly go, but must not for
her people's sake.
It is a great change; but if we work together, and support and help one
another, we may be able to take a far shorter road to the realization of our
hopes than could either alone. We meet at many, many points. You do not
yet know the name of my betrothed; it is Raden Adipati Djojo Adiningrat,
Regent of Rembang.
And now, adieu! Soon, I shall write again, and I hope at greater length.
[1] To Mevrouw Van Kol.

LXIII
August 1st, 1903.[1]
I want to make myself worthy of the highest title, and that is a Child of
God. Have I not told you often that we were done with all personal
happiness?
Now life comes to demand that promise of me. I have said that nothing
could be too bitter or too hard for us, if it would but enable us to add one
little grain of sand to the building of that great structure, the happiness of a
people.
Now I have been tested—What am I worth?
Yesterday was again an exciting day for us. We received a communication
from the Department of Education, telling us if we did not wish to make use
of the opportunity granted us to be educated as teachers, to send a statement
accordingly in writing to the Governor General. How must the statement
which has been asked for, be worded? Briefly and to the point, that I no
longer wish to make use of the offered opportunity because I am engaged to
be married; or because now a still better opportunity has presented itself to
me of working for our people at the side of a noble man, whom I respect,
who loves the people with me, and who will ably support me in my work. I
shall be of much greater service with him, than we two, as women standing
alone, could ever be.
And Roekmini does not wish to take advantage of the opportunity, because
she may not, nor does she wish even if she could, to go alone. She will
reach her goal in a different way.
Then I wish to express my respect and gratitude to the Government for
having taken the interests of Java to heart, and because when a child of the
people asked for aid, it lent an ear to her request, and was willing to meet
her half way in her regard for the future welfare of her race. Holland has

now grown nearer to us. We are convinced now that the Netherlands wishes
the happiness of India; that is no hollow phrase; we mean it.

All of my friends among my humble fellow countrymen have always
wished and prayed this for me, "That Bendora Adjeng Tini might go
nowhere but to a kaboepaten."
And the simple minded hearts rejoice now because their dream is to be
realized, they are happy because their wish for their Bendora is coming
true. You see how my simple friends triumph. "Vox populi vox dei." If that
is true then it is under the guidance of a higher power that my path in life
has taken a different direction from that which I myself had planned.
"May you be a blessing, a refuge to many, the tree in whose shade they find
refuge from the heat of the day." That is what many old people here pray for
me. May I live up to the expectations of these who are simple of heart.
A great task lies before me; unquestionably it is hard, but if I succeed, and
bring it to a good end, I shall serve our people as I could never have served
them in any other way. If my work is well done, it will be a lesson that will
have a powerful effect upon our cause, because to my fellow countrymen
my future will be the most beautiful and desirable in the world.
The mere fact of my marriage will do good; it will interest the parents, spur
them on to educate their daughters, and impress them more than could a
thousand inspired words. It stands for a fact, that beauty and riches are to be
despised before gifts of the heart and mind.
I remember my own words, when some one asked me how the idea of
education could be impressed upon our women and girls. The Javanese
people are just like other children of nature: they are children of the sun,
worshippers of splendour and brilliancy. Very well, gratify that wish, give
them what their hearts desire, but at the same time give them something that
is true, that is of real worth.
Now we shall not infringe too harshly upon the customs of our land, our
childlike people can still have their pomp and splendour. The freedom of

women is inevitable; it is coming, but we cannot hasten it. The course of
destiny cannot be turned aside, but in the end the triumph has been
foreordained.
We shall not be living to see it, but what will that matter? We have helped to
break the path that leads to it, and that is a glorious privilege!
Do not be uneasy; my betrothed will not cut my wings short; the fact that I
can fly is just what has raised me so high in his eyes. He will only give a
larger opportunity to stretch out my wings; he will help me to broaden my
field of work. He appreciates your Meiske for herself, and not as a possible
ornament for his home.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

LXIV
August 8th, 1903.[1]
Do you know what day this is? It is the third anniversary of our meeting.
Three years ago today, three simple, childlike girls received a costly gift
from heaven, the gift of a friend after their own hearts! The childlike girls
have grown to be women, life has furrowed wrinkles in the still young
faces; their hearts have been through fire. Have they wasted and gone to
ashes, or have they come forth from the fire purified?

Just now we have company; at the table where I sit there are five of us
working. Justinah the wise woman came this morning and will stay until
next week. We think her a treasure. She spends her time here usefully,
teaches embroidery and is so severe when we are careless. When we make a
mistake, she immediately pulls everything out. How rich I felt this morning
when she laid her hand trustingly on my shoulder, while I explained
something or other to her. Now she feels at home with us; I look with so
much pleasure into her fine intelligent eyes; they say so much.
She is a dessa-child. Oh, how full of love is her calling! You would enjoy
meeting her. She listens with attention when one speaks, and then asks such
intelligent questions. If you ever come to our neighbourhood again, I hope
to be able to take her to you. This clever little woman has already attended
forty-eight women in child-birth, and she is such a young thing still, with all
a child's eagerness.
The Regent of Rembang comes on the seventeenth of this month. I have
asked him to bring his children with him. I am so anxious to make the
acquaintance of my future family. The children are to be my future, and I
shall live and work for them, strive, and suffer, if need be, for them. I hope
that they will love me. I have asked their father to give the entire control of

his children to me. My dream is to make them feel, in so far as it is
possible, that they are my own children.
There are others that call themselves my children; the Under-Collector here,
a rich regent's son and heir, said, "Make my child your servant, let her scrub
the floor, draw water, anything that you will, if you will but let her stay with
you." I listened with a smile on my face, but I felt like crying.
I said nothing, promised nothing, but only prayed silently that I might lock
all the little children entrusted to me safely in my heart, and nourish them
with my love.
I am only going to take one child with me to my new dwelling—a girl of
eight or so, who has been given into my care by her parents. She is the
daughter of a teacher and has been to school. She is a lovely child, clever
and quick. If she shows any inclination at all, I shall educate her for some
profession. Now she receives lessons from my sister in handiwork. In the
Rembang there are women and children of gentle birth who have been
educated. I shall try to gain their interest in our work later.
My future sister-in-law is already "tainted" by a Western education; that
will be pleasant for me. My days, at home are numbered; only two more
short months and my future protector will come for me. He and his younger
brother, the regent of Toeban, have been here. The day is set; it is the
twelfth of November. The wedding will be very quiet, only our families will
be present and neither of us is to wear bridal dress; he will be in his
uniform, as I have already seen him. That is my wish. His children are not
coming, to my great disappointment. They are still too little, and the
journey is tiresome.

[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

LXV
August 25th, 1903.[1]
I shall find a rich field of work at Rembang, and thank God, there I shall not stand alone. He
has promised to stand at my side and support me; it is also his wish and his hope to support
me in my efforts to help our people. He himself has already laboured diligently for their
welfare for years. He too would like to help in the work of education, and though he cannot
give personal instruction himself, he can have it done by others. Many of his various
relatives are being educated at his expense. He expects me to be a blessing to him and to his
people; may he not be disappointed! I am very grateful for one thing: his family share his
ideas and approve of his choice. They look upon me as the future rearer of their children,
and I really hope to serve in that capacity; I do not think of anything else.
Sometimes I forget that I have lost so many beautiful illusions; and I think that I am still
following my calling, only along a different way from the one that I had mapped out for
myself, and I shall think that always; it gives me peace and helps me to be cheerful.
Nothing is perfect, and nothing may ever be perfect in this world. I had hoped and prayed
that I might become the mother and sister of many, and God has heard my prayer, though it
is a little different from what I meant.
It is one of his dreams, too, to be able to raise up our people. He is truly good to his people
and to the officials under him; they feed out of his hand.
Day before yesterday a collector was here and spent the whole evening talking to Father
about his daughter. He wishes me to undertake her education. His wife has already spoken
to me and now he came to talk to Father.
I am asked to take other children from here; I do not know whether I shall be able to take
them all, it is hard to refuse, but I will promise nothing. We shall first see how it goes. We
shall wait some days before coming to the hard duty of making a decision, and meanwhile I
shall not speak of it save under stress of urgent necessity. I will be forgiven when they see
that I do not refuse from pride, but from expediency and out of consideration for others;
perhaps for the sake of their own children too.
Fortunately Rembang is a quiet little place, and it is good that he cares as little as I for
amusements.
I am delighted that the Resident there is interested in our cause, so that I shall not go as a
stranger. And there will be my great friend, the sea! It lies not more than a hundred feet
from the house.
When they told him that I was much interested in the art and kindred industries of our
people, he said that there were goldsmiths and wood-carvers there; they only needed a little

directing. And listen to this: it is something very pleasant. Perhaps our good friend,
Singowirio will go there with me; you know whom I mean, the man from Blakang-
Goenoeng.
He could not have followed his Bendoro to Batavia, but now that the plan is somewhat
different he is anxious to go. We are planning to take him. But capital and leadership are
needed first of all, before our artistic industries can be placed upon a practical basis. A large
work-place ought to be built, and many apprentices and artisans taken to work under regular
supervision in our immediate neighbourhood.
If we only had the money, we could build a work-place, buy material, employ workmen and
train apprentices. Singo could be placed at the head of the establishment. I believe in less
than a year or two years at most, the capital thus invested would be doubled.
I should have been glad to begin here, but both of us had our eyes upon Batavia. When we
were gone our little sisters would have had to take the responsibility for everything, and that
would have been too hard for them. Now it is different, we could take the responsibility, if
we had the necessary money. I am convinced that our artistic industry has a great future.
Not long ago, while we were on a little journey, we met the Heer Brandes, brother of Doctor
Brandes. He expressed much interest in the art of our country. When I told him of a
tokootje[2] of productions of native art at Semarang, he set out immediately to look for it.
You must understand that the people of Semarang are opposed to sending the products of
their own neighbourhood to Batavia. "East and West" wishes to open a tokootje at
Semarang. But again money is needed, and "East and West" cannot give very much as yet.
When I told Heer Brandes this, he said, "Oh, do not worry about that, the money will be
found, if you will only take care of the other side."
I said, "But there must be some one of discrimination who will stay at Semarang."
"That will be found too, and your only care will be to see that beautiful things are
produced."
I have received a short letter from him. He has spoken to various friends about the plan, and
they were all much interested, and have promised their financial support. I spoke to him of
our other idea in regard to the art of wood-carving. At once he asked how much money we
would need for that. I did not mention any certain amount, I must first ask those who know,
how much the work-place would cost, how much the wood, and how what wages would
have to be paid out to the workmen every month. The work-place could be very simple at
first. The great difficulty is that there must be a force of fifty men kept steadily working,
and there would have to be money with which to pay them, because they could not afford to
wait for their wages until their work was sold. Rembang would be an excellent country for
wood-carving. It is the land of dati and there is also much sono there.
Singo himself thinks the idea excellent, if we only had the money!
If everything goes well, what a retinue I shall take with me, even though I am a modern
woman. I shall certainly have a strange bridal dower.

The Regent of Rembang is marrying a whole kotta. What business has he to put himself
between the people and their bride? Oh, heavens! I shall strike an unfortunate time, for I
shall arrive in the dry season of the year. (Poeasa-Leberan Nieuwjaar). I have said all along
that I would not allow my foot to be kissed. I could never allow any one to do that. I want a
place in their hearts, not outward forms.
I cannot think of the future without my Roekmini. How shall I get along without her and
she without me! When I think of her my eyes stay wide open the whole night long.
[1] To Mevrouw Dr. Abendanon.
[2] Little shop.

LXVI
October 19, 1903.[1]
Do you know what has happened? At his earnest request, the date has been changed. The
wedding will not be on the twelfth, but on the eighth of November, and on Wednesday the
eleventh, at about five o'clock, I shall leave my home.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

LXVII
November 3, 1903.[1]
Our girl is alive again, she is alive. Her heart glows and thrills, and it is not burning pain or
bitter, dumb despair that makes the strings vibrate; love is sounding the chords. Why did I
complain, ungrateful that I was, with such a rich treasure within me?
Love is greater than all else! And she is richest who gives most. And I shall give, as a rich
father's child, with a full hand. What has been given me, I shall give back with interest. Oh,
there are so many that hunger and thirst after love!
Strange and wonderful things can happen in life. He and Father were drawn together from
the very first moment that they set eyes upon each other two years ago. He and Father have
been friends ever since; and he has visited us often.
It was one of his poor little wife's wishes to come and see us, with him and all of the
children. Both of them called my father, "Father." She was so anxious to make our
acquaintance; alas, before her wish could be granted, death took her away.
Shortly before her death, he saw his wife in a dream; she was deep in fervent prayer, and
the prayer that was sent up to the All-Highest was, that she and Raden Adjeng Kartini might
meet and be friends through all eternity. Since that time, I have never been out of his
thoughts.
Yes, he has suffered much, when she went away it was a deep blow to him, he loved her
very dearly.

And his hope for himself is, that Father's treasure—his wasiat djati,[2] as he calls me—shall
help him to forget his grief.
May I not find a little message from you when, on the eleventh, I enter my new home for
the first time? It will be as if you had raised your dear hand to bless me.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.
[2] Heir to his existence in whom his whole being begins and ends.

LXVIII
November 7.[1]
My Dearest Moedertje:
This is the last greeting from your little daughter as a young girl, on the day before her
wedding. Tomorrow, at half-past six, we are to be married. I know that tomorrow my whole
heart will be with you. Good-bye, my dearest. Greet your husband heartily for me, and
remember that you will always have the deep affection of
Your own little daughter
K
.
[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

LXIX
Rembang,

December 11th, 1903.[1]
My Dearest, Best Friends:
You do not know with what affection this, my first letter from my new home, is written. A
home where, praise God, there is peace and love everywhere, and we are all happy with and
through one another.
I regret so deeply that only through the press of circumstances I have not been able to write
to you before. Forgive me. The first days were so frightfully hard; then our children were
ailing, and at last I felt the reaction from the wearisome days through which we had passed.
I was far from well and was obliged to take care of myself. Now I am again fresh and
happy. Once more it is the old irresponsible, hare-brained creature of other days, who can
look forward to the future with smiling eyes.
Do I have to express myself still more plainly, dearest? I bless the day on which I laid my
hand in that of him who was sent by the All-Father to be my comrade in the journey
through this great and difficult life.
Everything that was noble and beautiful in my eyes I find here realized before me. Some of
the dreams that I still dream he has carried out years ago, or he dreams them now with me.
We are so entirely one in thought and ideas that often I am frightened. You would both love
him if you knew him. You would admire his clear brain and honour his good heart. I have
thought so often that the noble should live for the people, and I have wanted to preach this
aloud. Our nobles would not care to hear it, but he, my heart's king, has gone before me.
It is just a month today since my husband brought me here to his country, and led me into
his house, now our home. The Queen could not have been more warmly welcomed. All of
Rembang made festival; even on the border, every house was decorated with flags; the very
hired carriages on the highways bore the tricolour. The enthusiasm of the people was so
spontaneous and genuine, the expressions of sympathy came so warmly from their hearts.
The people were gay and rejoiced because their beloved ruler was happy. Again and again
my husband took me out on the balcony—the people must see his new Goesti-Poetri.
I sat on a stool near him, silent, my eyes full of tears, and my heart overflowing with
emotion; there was happiness, there was gratitude, there was pride; pride in him, that he had
gained such a warm place in the heart of the people; gratitude because one of my dearest
dreams was realized, and happiness because I sat there at his side.
And our children—how can I tell you of these delights? I felt drawn to them at once, they
are such dear, unspoiled creatures; and every day they grow closer and closer to my heart.

Their father has laid a good foundation to their education; it began just as I always wished
education to begin in simplicity and modesty. My little treasures do not hold themselves
above the most humble person here in the house; every one is alike to them. The field is
prepared, I have only to go forth and sow.
In January I hope to be able to open our little school. We are looking for a good teacher; and
till we have found one, I shall have charge of the lessons myself. If unforeseen
circumstances should intervene and I be prevented in any way, one of my sisters will carry
on the work for me, till I am able to take charge of it again.
Several parents have already asked me to teach their children. Our idea is to open a school
for daughters of the native chiefs here, if we can get a suitable teacher. If we could find a
good governess, then she could care for the mental development of our children and also for
the formation of their characters.
When everything is in good working order, could we not hope for a subsidy from the
Government? The expenses of the school would be as low as possible; the children would
receive their board and lodging free from us. Shall I write a letter about it?
The parents are full of confidence and are asking us to take their children. This is now our
opportunity. We must begin. After a while I shall write to you at greater length about our
plans. I have the fullest confidence that a girls' school, held by us at our home, under the
direction of a European teacher with me as head mistress, would succeed. We have great
plans, and we would give anything to be able to talk this over with you and your husband
face to face.
I am writing this at five o'clock in the morning. The children are awake and hanging over
my chair; mother must give them bread and milk.
You must see our youngest just once; he is not yet two years old, but so intelligent. As I sat
here, he came with a little footstool; it was too heavy for him to carry, so he dragged it to
mother; mother's feet must not hang. Then the darling child climbed on my lap. When I call
the children to me, they fight to see which one shall reach me first, and our little sister
brings me the spoons and forks.
The one who is naughty must not come to mother. They have the greatest fun when they
bathe with me, and I too enjoy this more than anything else. It is such a pleasure to see the
fresh, laughing little faces.
And now I am going to talk about myself. I have not thanked you yet for the many
expressions of love which we have received from you of late. I was made so happy by the
letter from your husband and yourself, which I received at Japara; my warmest thanks to
you both. And you, Moedertje dearest, I kiss you heartily on both cheeks for your welcome
greeting, which I found upon my arrival.
December, 16. Today I feel a great peace. A whole history lies behind it. And this letter
must not go until I have told it to you.

Guess who has been staying here and who went away only this morning. Mevrouw and
Heer Bervoets, from Modjowarno. They had been to Japara to see my parents, who sent
them here to us. It was an inspiration of Father's, and we bless the happy chance which led
those good angels here.
I had been anxious for a long time to make the acquaintance of this noble couple. My wish
has been granted, and in what manner! I have always thought of them with sympathy, but
now deep gratitude is mingled with the sympathy.
Day before yesterday, my husband was cheerful and wide awake the whole day. At noon the
Bervoets came, and he was so well that one would have little thought that a few hours later
he would be lying desperately ill. Much interested, it was past midnight before we took
leave of our guests. An hour later, my husband was suffering from a violent indisposition;
the sickness came suddenly, and in less than three minutes it was so severe that he hardly
expected to see the morning. How I felt, you can easily imagine. I had Doctor Bervoets
called. He had expected to leave the next morning at eight, but neither he nor his wife had
the heart to go away and leave us in so much trouble; they would go at one o'clock instead.
But even then they saw that my husband needed constant medical attention, and our doctor
was away on a journey.
It was an acute case of colic; an illness from which my husband had never suffered before
in his life. Yesterday at midday he began to mend, and fell asleep. You can imagine how
thankful I was. This morning at eight o'clock, our new friends went away. My husband is
improving steadily and is only very weary. At this moment he is sleeping quietly, and has
been for a full half hour. God grant that he may soon be entirely well!
It is so strange that in her last days his first wife should have thought of me. She longed to
know me, and to become friends with me. Her dream was to go to Japara and to take her
children to me; she hardly laid my portrait out of her hand, and even on her last sick-bed
she had it by her.
After she had departed, and her earthly pain was over, every one here, even the native
officials, have had but one wish, which has now been granted since the eighth of November.
That is why there was such general rejoicing when we came.
My husband received your letter with great pleasure. The horse trappings for "East and
West" are ready. They are now packed and as soon as he is better, they will be sent. He has
also several kinds of pea-cock feather cigar holders, and we are looking for some examples
of real Lassemsche sarongs. We shall then see what we can do further for "East and West."
My husband thinks the idea of moving the Japara wood-carvers here excellent. He supports
me warmly in that, just as he does in all my other projects. A handcraft school for natives
has been one of his dreams all along.
My husband is anxious for me to write a book about the sagas and legends of Java. He
would collect them for me, and we could work on them together—a wonderful prospect.

There is so much that he wants to do with me; on my writing-table several articles from his
hand are already lying.
[1] To Mevrouw and Dr. Abendanon.

LXX
Rembang, March 6th, 1904.
My Own Dearest Moedertje:
I wish that I could throw my arms around your neck, I long from my soul to tell you of my
great joy, to make you a sharer in our splendid secret. A great, sweet happiness awaits me. If
Gods so wills it, toward the end of September, there will come one sent from heaven to
make our beautiful life still more beautiful, to draw the bond closer and tighter that already
binds us together. Mother, my mother, think of the little soul that will be born from our two
souls to call me mother.
Can you picture it? I a mother! I shall make you, old Moedertje, I shall make you a
grandmother! Will you come later on to see your grandchild? I shall not be able now to go
to Batavia. Our plan was first to go on a journey this month, to take a month's holiday. Now
we must give up the idea. I am not able to travel, and when our little one is here, then, too, I
may not travel. So I shall see Batavia no more, at least while you are there. And what would
it be worth to me without you and Mijnheer? My husband is so glowingly happy because of
this new life which I carry under my heart. That alone was wanting to our happiness.

LXXI
Rembang, April 10th, 1904.[1]
Highly Honoured Friends:
It must have seemed strange to you to have heard from me in reply to your cordial letter,
and to have had no word of acknowledgment for the splendid presents with which we have
been so greatly pleased. If every thought sent to you had become a deed, what an array of
letters you would now have! Forgive me, dear friends, that no word has gone to you long
before this.
The change from a simple young girl to a bride, a mother, and the wife of a highly placed
native official—which means much in our Indian life—is so great that I could think of
nothing at first but of how best to fulfil my new duties. But that was not the only reason.
Shortly after our wedding, my husband was taken very ill. After that I myself began to ail.
Even now the Rembang climate does not agree with me. We live flat by the sea, but what, at
Japara was an advantage, is here, at Rembang, a plague. Here we must have a care for the
sea wind, which is very unwholesome, because it must first blow over coral reefs and slime
before it reaches us. But let me thank you, also in my husband's name, most gratefully for
the magnificent presents which you sent to us at the time of our marriage.
The interesting painting, and the coloured photograph of Jena hang in our sitting-room,
where my husband, who is a great lover of statues and pictures, keeps his art treasures. I
look at them so often with great pleasure and then many loving, grateful thoughts fly to my
friends in Jena. How charming of you to want to give me a "boomkoek," the German
national cake, which no single festival in your country must be without. That you were not
able to express the thought in deeds, makes no difference to me. I appreciate it just as much
as though it had become an accomplished fact.
And now I must tell you about my new life. You will be glad to hear of that, will you not?
Because you take such interest in your Javanese friend, and have been so concerned about
her future. God be thanked, your fears for me have proved groundless. A young wife writes
you these lines, a wife whose happiness beams in her eyes and who can find no words
adequate to express it.
My husband (and it is known through the whole of Java that I am different from others; yet
he has bound himself to me) is not only my husband, he is my best friend.
Everything that I think has been thought by him too, and many of my ideas have already
been expressed by him in deeds. I have laid out for myself a full life. I have planned to be a
pioneer in the struggle for the rights and freedom of the Javanese woman. I am now the
wife of a man whose support gives me strength in my efforts to reach the ideal which is
always before my eyes. I have now both personal happiness and also my work for my ideal.

I know that you will both be pleased to know that your little Javanese friend of the turbulent
spirit is now anchored in a safe haven. I wish that you could see me in my new
surroundings. You know how little I cared for luxury and worldly position; they would have
no value in my eyes, were it not that it is my husband who gives them to me. But they are
means by which I may reach my goal more easily. The Javanese are deeply loyal to their
nobles. Everything that their chiefs desire is readily accepted by them. So now at the side of
my husband I shall reach the hearts of the people much more easily.
The success of the plans for our school shows that I have their confidence.
We began to teach at home in Japara, and now our younger sisters are carrying on the work
there. Our little school now has one hundred and twenty pupils, daughters of native chiefs.
My sisters give them instructions. But here too I have begun our work; my own little
daughters were my first pupils. So you see that the little Javanese are beginning to realize
the dream of their girlhood.
[1] To Professor and Mrs. Anton of Jena.

LXXII
Rembang, June 28th, 1904.[1]
We do not go out often, and we entertain very little, yet my life is always full. Splendid! I
divide my days between my dear husband, my housekeeping, and my children—both my
own and the adopted ones. And these last take the largest share of my time and attention.
When father is at work, then the children work with me from nine until twelve o'clock. At
half-past twelve, father finds a troop of clean-faced but very hungry children. At half-past
one the little ones are sent to bed,[2] and if father is in bed, and I am not too tired, I work
with the young girls. At four o'clock I preside at the tea-table. When the little ones have
drunk their milk and have bathed, they can drive the fowls to the coops, or walk with us, or
play in the garden. We amuse ourselves for a little, and prattle about everything or about
nothing.
When our little troop comes in, then we are done with play. Father sits down to read the
paper, and they range themselves around mother. I sit in a rocking-chair with the two
smallest on my lap, a child on each arm of the chair and the two eldest at my knee. We tell
stories; soon afterward supper-time comes around. We eat early with the little ones, the
smallest of all sits next to mother. The little fellow has taken upon himself the task of lifting
the glass cover for mother. No one must take that little work away from him, and if he is not
allowed to do it, he knows it is because he has deserved a punishment.
At eight o'clock the little treasures are sent to bed. And we parents sit up and talk to each
other till Klaas Vaak drives us to the poeloe kapok, and this is not so late as at Japara, for
we get up very early in the morning.
Sunday is a holiday for both of us. We begin it always with a walk; after that I teach my
girls cooking, and then the mother and wife can do the things for which she has not had
time during the week. It is not much that she can do, for my husband is happier when I sit
by him. He charms me sometimes with beautiful gamelan music and songs. I think it is
delightful in my husband to add the songs. For the gamelan music alone makes too great an
impression upon me. It takes me back to times of which I must not think. It makes me weak
and sad.
So the days fly by, calm, quiet and peaceful as a little brook deep in the forest.
If the child that I carry under my heart is a girl, what shall I wish for her? I shall wish that
she may live a rich full life, and that she may complete the work that her mother has begun.
She shall never be compelled to do anything abhorrent to her deepest feelings. What she
does must be of her own free will. She shall have a mother who will watch over the welfare
of her inmost being, and a father who will never force her in anything. It will make no
difference to him if his daughter remains unmarried her whole life long; what will count
with him will be that she shall always keep her esteem and affection for us. He has shown