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
"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!
