[3] A talisman which protects from calamity.

LIV

_January 14th, 1903._[1]

My brother; my little brother, will positively not become priaja, and enter the service of the Indian Government. If Mevrouw has told you something of my letters, you will know that I am not sorry, but am rejoicing with brother in his decision. We think it splendid that brother has not for an ideal that which thousands of his fellow countrymen have always looked upon as most desirable, as the very height of good fortune--to be a little Prince, glittering with b.u.t.tons, under a gold striped parasol. It is a great joy to us that pomp and ceremony have no charm for him, and that he has realized so young that he wishes to go another way from the one that has always been followed, and trodden flat, by the feet of thousands.

I should have liked for him to dedicate himself to the service of suffering humanity, and to have studied medicine. That is perhaps part selfishness in me, I should have been glad to see him become a doctor because it is such a beautiful calling, and it would have inevitably taught him to understand our ideals. He could have done so much to further the mutual respect between the European and native elements. He could have taught his people to trust the European methods of healing, and he could have called the attention of the European world to the simple native methods whose value has been many times proven.

I spoke to little brother about the Doktor-Djawa School, but he had no inclination in that direction, and we do not wish to press him.

[1] To Dr. Abendanon.

LV

_January 17, 1903._[1]

For three longs weeks not a drop of rain has fallen. It is boiling hot as it has never been before, even in the dryest Oostmoesson.

Father is in despair; the young rice in the fields is turning brown, Oh, our poor people! So far they have had enough to eat here and they do not know the most frightful of all calamities which a land can suffer--Famine. But what has not been, may be; and this great drought in the time of the wet season presages anything but good. What will happen if it keeps up? For several mornings the wind has blown as it usually does first in May. Has the turning point been reached, has the dry season begun?

It is frightful, every one looks on helpless. It is hard to see everything that has been sown and planted turn brown and die, without being able to turn a finger to help it, and the great heat hara.s.ses the body too; one feels dull and listless.

What do you think of such a complaint from a child of the sun? Oh, how frightful for the people who are working out in the fields, if for us in here it is so scalding hot, and this is the wet season (Westmoesson). Do not be chary with your cold; could you not spare a little of it? You may take as much of our warmth as you wish.

[1] To Mevrouw Van Kol.

LVI

_January 27th, 1903._[1]

I have been thinking of the time that is past, the old time when I sat with your father and your dear mother by the sea; those were moments of delight, such as one never forgets. The last time too that we sat with your father by the sh.o.r.e, and he talked to us of our plans, will always live in our memory.

It was splendid to speak heart to heart with one whom we knew to be such a n.o.ble, sincere friend. And what was the result; I could not sleep the whole night, I tossed about in my bed with your father's earnest affectionate words still in my mind and in my heart. That was what we had needed, what we had longed for; an earnest affectionate word, spoken face to face. The next morning early, your father had to go away, to our great sorrow. We went with his Excellency in the carriage past the way where we had talked on the sand; the result of that talk is that very soon, with the full consent of our parents, we are going to present a pet.i.tion to the Government through the Governor General, asking it to give us an opportunity to help the Javanese woman of the future by completing our education at Batavia. Are you not startled, Brother? I do not know what you will think--that we are fickle? To strive with all our might at first to go to Holland, move heaven and earth to get there, and when at last, thanks to the work of our friends, we can go--to say "I am going to stay." What do you think of such instability? But is it not better to turn! back and acknowledge one's mistake than to persist in a wrong course for the sake of consistency?

Do you know when that idea of going to Holland first took such a fast hold of us? It was in the December days of 1901, when we suffered without knowing why. Then there came to us a wild longing to go away--far away. Away, away--away into another atmosphere--to another land, where we should breathe a different air, and all our soul's wounds should be healed, where we should be strengthened in spirit and perhaps also in body. Strengthened and born anew, we would come back to work for the regeneration of our people. While we were away, people would cease to think of us. Alas, that it would seem so good to be forgotten. We should be forgotten by those for whom we would work, whom we so longed to help.

O, poor illusions! You know that it has always been one of our dearest dreams to be educated for our work, in Holland. But Father's last, severe illness has made us think deeply. We understood at last as we stood over his sick bed how fast his dear heart was bound up in us. But I still ask myself, should we have come to this decision if your father had not been here and talked with us? I do not know, but there is no doubt that our parents have to thank your father for much, and we ourselves, are very grateful to his Excellency too.

Sister and I have talked and pondered over your father's words for a long time. The result is that our going to Holland is still in the air--has flown to the moon, but that we hope to go to Batavia with all speed.

This is all personal. More important, is the effect which our decision will have upon our cause. In the first place if we go to Batavia, we could begin to study at once. While if we go to Holland, we must wait a long time. I think always of your father's words, "Why not do what can be done at once--something will have been accomplished then, while in Holland everything would lie far in the future." Your father spoke of the wounded man who called for help; some one comes to him and says, "No friend--I cannot help you now, I must first study, and learn how wounds should be dressed." Then the some one goes away, and when at last he had learned the art of binding wounds, the man who had called to him, had long been dead.

Then your father spoke of a pearl lying deep in the sea. You know that it is there but you do not know precisely where. You wade out into the sea and try to find it. The water comes up to your lips, some one calls to you and says-"Friend do not do that, go no further. The water already comes up to your lips, if you are drowned, still you will not have the pearl; get into a boat, measure and fish for it."

Your father said we could open a school at once without having to pa.s.s a single examination. There is nothing in the law that compels one to pa.s.s examination before teaching native girls. We could get some European teachers to help us, that would be as we wished, but do you think it would be well for us to open it at all without adequate preparation? It is true that in "Our School" (how pleasant that sounds) we want to give more of a moral than an academic education. If it is not erected by the Government we would not have to follow the prescribed paths, and we want the whole idea of our school to be the education of children, not as though they were in a school, but in a home, as a mother would bring up her own children.

It must be like a great home community. Where the inmates all love one another and learn from one another, and where the mother is not a mother in name but in spirit, the educator of the child's soul and body.

We have thought much about that other idea of your father's; but in this way; if we are not able to study, but have to remain at home, could we not take the little daughters of regents here, as many as the kaboepaten would hold? Let them go to school outside, but give them their moral education here with us. We could lead the young hearts through play and help to form the young characters. During the hours when those children would be at school, we could take other little children of native chiefs here in our own neighbourhood and teach them elementary branches, handiwork and other things. All the while unperceived, we would be knocking at the little hearts and trying to get nearer to the little souls. But if we find that we can open a school, then we had rather study first. Do you not think we are right, Brother? The school would be at Magelang or at Salatiga. Your father has talked with ours about it, and there is no objection at all. That would be almost as good as going to Holland. It would be splendid--He Brother?

Our grandfather in the past brought up the sons of other n.o.bles.

Grandfather had a tutor for his children, and he took the sons of the Pangerang of Solo and of a regent of middle Java to be educated with his own sons. So you see there is nothing new under the sun; our idea which is called startlingly new, is old, inherited from our grandfather. Our plan of education--our spirit, has descended from him. Grandfather was a pioneer; we are only carrying on his work--they were good people, both grandfather and grandmother.

Your father has told us that according to form a note must be presented in which our plans, and ideas are set forth plainly and exactly. It must be written from the heart, not at all as though it was intended for the Governor General. We should like for your father to read the note first, but his Excellency does not think it necessary. We must write simply, just as we feel.

[1 To Heer E.C. Abendanon.

LVII

_February 1st, 1903._[1]

I must thank you once more for your advice. Your talk did us a tremendous amount of good. Why should I not acknowledge to you that we had never looked at things in that light before, and had never dreamed that if we went to Holland we might endanger our own cause. Our "Friends" would be only too glad to spread abroad the report that we had grown to be wholly "blanda,"[2] and many parents would shudder at the mere thought of entrusting their children to us. You have opened our eyes; we are grateful from our hearts.

This morning we were taking a drive and we witnessed a nave example of native faith. It was out in the fields. Men and animals were uniting in prayer to the All-Highest to bathe the thirsty earth with blessed rain.

In the foreground sat the priest and santries,[3] behind the priestesses in white garments and around them hundreds of men, women and children.

Sheep, goats, horses and buffaloes were bound to stakes. A priest stood before them and led the service, praying in a loud voice. Most of the people fell in with "Amin-amin," in which chorus the Meeting of the sheep was blended.

This ceremony is called "sembajang istira." They prayed for three days and three nights. You can imagine the delight and grat.i.tude of the people, because now it has rained. Their prayers were effectual and do you know what they say now? We cannot get the idea out of their heads, that we had a share in it.

Before this at other places the people had held "sembajang istira," but never a drop of rain fell. Chance willed it that we should be present at the solemnities here, so our simple people draw the conclusion that we gave strength to that last prayer and supplication which, plainly, was heard and answered.

Such childlike, confiding faith is touching.

I wish so often that I had a photographic apparatus and could make a permanent record of some of the curious things that I see among our people. There is so much which we should like to preserve, so that we could give to outsiders a true picture of us Javanese.

It would mean so much more than mere written description if they would see the whole scene on the paddi--the buffaloes and the botjok-angongs[4] included. I could then write what I, as a child of Java, think and feel about these things.