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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sembly 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 "tres difficile, tres complique, tres delicat."
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 j.a.para, 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 j.a.para when she sits high and dry at Buitenzorg, although she may be a thousand times better off there than here. They that have known j.a.para; 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 G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses; 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 G.o.d.
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 a.s.sure 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.