Javanese Letters: I. The Old Life and the New Spirit

JAPARA, JAVA, 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 I had rather do than give myself wholly to the working and striving of the new woman in Europe: but age-long traditions which 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 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, ware 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 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 anyone, and, above all, never, never to be obliged to marry.
But we must marry, must, must. Not to marry is the greatest sin that the Mohammedan woman can commit; it is the greatest disgrace that a native girl can bring upon 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.

To the deep grief of others, brought seed which entered my heart, took root, and grew strong and vigorous.
And now I shall 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 seven brothers and sisters. What a world, eh? My grandfather, Pangerin Ario Tjondronegoro of Damak, 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 Hooge-Burge Schole—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 were 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.
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, 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. What a great and priceless victory it was! That young girls of our position should show themselves in public was an unheardof occurrence. The‘world’ stood aghast;

Will you not tell me something of the labors, the struggles, the sentiments, of the woman of to-day 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. 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.

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 greatgrandfather was a reigning prince, and her grandmother a princess. But we do not give twopence 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 who allow themselves to depend upon their so called ‘high birth.’
I have always been an enemy of formality. I care nothing for form. 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.
Among us, beginning with myself, we dispense with all ceremony and speak our own sentiments freely.
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;² 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 honorable head without my high permission, and they may not do it even then without first making a sembah.
If food stands upon 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.
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 anyone, but the younger ones, beginning with me, are doing away with all ceremony. Freedom, equality, and fraternity! For my little brother 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.

JAPARA.
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. 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.
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 be first 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.
If I could learn the Dutch language thoroughly, my future would be assured. A rich field of labor 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. To understand that, one has to be born a Javanese. Much that is obscure now and a riddle to Europeans, I could make clear with a few words.
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.
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.
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! Kissing is not customary among the Javanese.³ 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.

Let me tell you a story that is neither amusing nor interesting, but dull and monotonous and long-drawn-out, and will demand much patience.
It is the history of three brown girls, children of the sunny East; born blind, but whose eyes have been opened so that they can see the beautiful, noble things in life.
Already in her earliest youth, when emancipation was for her an unknown word, and when books and other writings which spoke of it were far beyond her reach, in one of the three sisters was born the desire to open the door of life.
It was recreation hour at the European school at Japara. Under the yellow blossoming waroe trees in the school-yard, big and little girls were grouped in happy disorder. It was so warm that no one cared to play.
‘Shut your book, Letsy, I have something to tell you,’ pleaded a brown girl, whose costume and head-dress betrayed the Javanese.
A big blonde girl, who leaned against the trunk of a tree reading eagerly in a book, turned round and said, ‘No, I have to study my French lesson.’

'You can do that at home, for it is not school work.’
'Yes, but if I do not learn my French lessons well, I shall not be allowed to go to Holland year after next; and I am so anxious to go there to study at the Normal School. When I come back later as a teacher, perhaps I shall be placed here, and then I shall sit on the platform before the class as our teacher does now. But tell me, Ni, you have never yet said what you were going to be when you grew up?’
Two large eyes were turned toward the speaker in astonishment.
'Only tell me.’
The little Javanese shook her head and said laconically, 'I do not know.’
The first thing that she did when she got home was to run to her father and lay the problem before him.
'What am I going to be when I grow up?’
He said nothing, but smiled and pinched her cheek. But she would not allow herself to be put off, and waited, teasing him for an answer. At last an older brother came in, and answered the question. Her greedy listening ears heard these words —
'What should a girl become? Why a Raden Adjoe [a Javanese married woman of high rank], naturally.’
The little girl was satisfied with the answer, and went quickly and happily away.
‘A Raden Adjoe,’ she repeated several times to herself. 'What is a Raden Adjoe?’ The idea was with her always; she thought constantly of the two words ‘Raden Adjoe.’ She must later become such an one. She looked around her, saw and came in contact with many Raden Adjoes, regarded them attentively, studied them, and what she learned (as much as a child could understand) of the lives of these women, caused the spirit of opposition to awake in her heart against this being a Raden

Adjoe — this ancient iron-bound rule, that girls must marry, must belong to a man, without being asked when, who, or how.
This little girl reached the age of twelve and a half, and it was time that she should say farewell to her merry, childish life, and take leave of the schoolbenches on which she had been so glad to sit, and of the little European companions among whom she had studied so willingly. She was old enough to come home according to the custom of her country. It demands that a young girl remain in the house, and be rigidly secluded from the outside world until that time when the man for whom God has created her shall come and take her to his dwelling.
She knew all too well that with the school door much that was unutterably dear would be closed to her forever. The parting from the dear teacher, who bade her farewell with such sympathetic, cordial words, counseling resignation, and from little companions, who with tears in their eyes pressed her hand.
It was hard, but it was as nothing in comparison with the giving up of her lessons, the ending of her studies. She was so bent upon learning, and she knew that there was much more yet to be studied before one can even go through the lower school. She was ambitious, and she did not wish to stand below her little white friends, most of whom were going to Europe later, or her brothers who went to the High School.
She implored her father to allow her to go to the High School at Samarang with the boys: she would do her best; her parents would never have to complain of her.
Caressingly he stroked the dark little head, his fingers pushed back tenderly the rebellious locks from her forehead, and softly and yet firmly, the word ‘No’ came from his lips.

She sprang up, she knew what ‘No’ from him meant. She went away and crept under the bed to hide herself; she wished to be alone with her grief.
Once her teacher had asked her if she could not go to Holland to study with Letsy, his daughter, who was her friend. She listened eagerly and with shining eyes.
‘Would you not like to go?
‘Do not ask me if I would like to go; ask me if I may,’came hoarsely from her trembling lips.
Gone, gone was her merry childhood; gone everything that made her young life happy. She still felt herself such a child, and she was that in fact, too, but the law placed her inexorably among the full grown.
Ni sinned every second.
She watched her younger sisters with hungry longing every time that they went out of the door, armed with their school-books, to go to the temple of wisdom where knowledge was to be found.
For a time she tried to study her lessons by herself; but it seemed useless — a pupil alone without a master soon grows discouraged. With a deep sigh she hid her books away.
Ni found it hard, but not so hard as to feel that her own mother was opposed to her. She too closed her heart to her, because her child’s ideas were diametrically opposed to her own.
Still her life was not so wholly colorless and dull. There were two who held to her, who loved her just as she was; she felt their love warming her inmost being, and clung to them with all the tenderness of her thirsting heart. They were her father and her third brother — the youngest of her older brothers. It is true that they could not satisfy her most intimate and dearest wish to be free; could never gratify her longing to study. But her dear father was always so good to his little daughter, his own silly girl; she knew that he loved her, she felt it. He would look at her tenderly, his gentle hands would stroke her cheeks, her hair, and his strong arms would go protectingly round her.
And she knew that brother loved her, too; although he had never told her so, had never spoken a loving word to her, had never caressed her. But a thousand little delicate attentions of which only a loving heart could think spoke constantly of his warm affection for her. He never laughed at her when she told him her thoughts, never made her shiver with a cold ‘Go your own way; as for me, I am a Javanese.’ Ni felt so rich with the love of her two dear ones, and with the sympathy of her brother.
But her father was not always with her; he had his work to do, and where he worked she might not go. She must never go out of the fast-closed place which was her dwelling. And her brother was at home only once in the year, for he went to school in Samarang.
Her oldest brother came home. He had obtained an appointment in the neighborhood and lived with his parents. If Ni had suffered before his coming, from the coolness of nearly all those who lived in the house with her, from their indifference to all that interested her, from her imprisonment, there now began a series of teasings and tormentings which added a thousand times to her distress. Ni was wild; she could not dance to the piping of her brother. ‘Young people should be submissive and obey their elders,’ was constantly preached to her; and above all, ‘Girls must be submissive to their older brothers.’
But headstrong Ni could not see why this should be. She could not help it, that she should have been born later than her brother; that was no reason why she should be submissive to him. She was not answerable to anyone, only to her own conscience and her own heart. She would never give in to her brother except when she was convinced that he was right.
At first he was astonished, and later he grew angry, when he saw that a little girl who was half a dozen years younger than he dared to defy his will. She must be forcibly suppressed. Everything was wrong that Ni did. She was severely reprimanded for each little fault. No day passed that brother and sister did not stand facing each other in anger — he with a dark countenance and stern words that made her heart bleed, and she with quivering lips tremblingly defending her good right to do something which he wished to forbid.
She was entirely alone in her fight against the despotism of her brother — her future protector, whenever she should have the misfortune to lose her parents, until she should leave his roof under the protection of the man for whom God had created her! He took very good care not to torment her when her father was there; father would never have allowed it, and he knew very well that she was too proud to tell.
But the others who lived in the house were silent too, although they knew that she was within her rights. A girl had no right to do anything that would even partially detract from the importance of a man. It was not right for this girl to oppose her ideas to those of her self-willed brother.
In later years, when Ni recalled all this, she could understand perfectly why the man was so egotistical. Always, by everyone in the house, he was taught as a child to be selfish, by his mother most of all. From childhood he was taught to regard the girl, the woman, as a creature of a lower order than himself. Had she not often heard his mother, his aunts, and all the women of his acquaintance say to him in scornful, disdainful tones, ‘A girl is only a girl’?

It is through woman herself that man first learns to scorn woman. Ni’s blood boiled whenever she heard deprecating words about girls spoken by a woman.
She had always been fond of reading, but now her love for reading became a passion; as soon as she had time, when all her little duties were done, she would seize a book or paper. She read everything that came into her hands; she greedily devoured both the green and the ripe. Once she threw away a book which was full of horrors. She did not have to look into books when she wished to know of loathsome, nauseating things: real life was full of them; it was to escape from them that she buried her soul in realms which the genius of man has fashioned out of the spirit of fantasy.
Her father took a great pleasure in her love of reading and showered her with presents of books. She did not understand everything that she read, but she did not allow herself to be discouraged by that. What she could not understand in the first reading became in the second less obscure, and at the third or fourth, it would be quite clear. Every unknown word that she found she noted down; and later, when her dearest brother came home, she would ask him its meaning. And he helped his little sister so willingly and lovingly.
A little brother was boRN, and this helpless baby held Ni back from misfortune; he brought her again into the good path from which she had begun to wander. She was fast becoming a bad child toward her mother. She had closed her heart more and more toward her, and the little brother made the doors of that heart spring wide open again. Little brother taught her what a mother is, and what a child owes to its mother.
Four years went by, calm and quiet on the surface, but to those who could see below it, full of strife for Ni. She learned much in those years: self-mastery, submission, not always to think first of herself; but peace and acquiescence she had not learned, could never learn; her head was haunted by turbulent thoughts, fostered by things that she saw around her, connected both with her own life, and with the lives of others, which made her blood boil. Voices, too, still came to her from the distant West in books, newspapers, and magazines, and in letters from Dutch friends.
She had scarcely been away from her parent’s house a single time.
Her oldest brother, meanwhile, was given a position at a distance, and Ni was ashamed that she should be so very glad. He was still her brother, although he had not loved her.
Time and separation work wonders; they took away all resentment from Ni’s heart, and she grew to love her brother truly. She felt sorry for the great boy who had allowed himself to be deceived by the silly flattery of fawning, favorseeking men. It comforted her to think that toward the last she had noticed a change in his conduct toward her. He said nothing in words, but his actions spoke of his sorrow for his former injustice; and Ni thanked God with tears in her eyes that her brother was beginning to be fond of her. She who had been formerly disliked and hated was now first. She was always with him, and he would do more for her than for anyone else.
Ni was now sixteen. The oldest sister married, and with the wedding celebration changes came into her own life. Ni learned to know her sisters, who up to this time had lived near her, but as strangers. There could never have been very much confidence between her older sister and herself; she was only an older sister. And Ni did not wish to be so regarded by the younger ones: she wished to be loved, and not feared.

Freedom and equality were what she asked for herself; ought she not to begin by giving them to others? The intercourse between the younger sisters and herself must be free and unrestrained. Away with everything that would hinder it. With Bimi and Wi, a little sister who had meanwhile come to the ‘ box,’ Ni took sister’s room. And the three lives that had hitherto been strange to one another, flowed together and became as one.

Father has borne so patiently with all my caprices: I have never heard a harsh or bitter word from his lips. He is always loving and gentle. Through everything I feel his great love. Some time ago, when I pressed him for a decision, he looked at me so sorrowfully, it was as if his sad eyes asked, ‘Are you in such haste to leave me, child?’
I turned away my head; I did not wish to see the dear true eyes; I wanted to be strong and not weak.
My heart almost broke once, when, as we two stood opposed to each other, father clasped me in his arms, and in a voice trembling with emotion said, ‘Must it be so, child? Is there no other way? Must it be?’
And we stayed there, heart pressed to heart, looking into each other’s eyes.
That was a heavy time, as heavy as a time can well be on this earth. It was shortly before father’s illness. Later, when father was recovering, mother said to me, ‘Ah, child, give in to him.'
‘I cannot,’ I answered in a choking voice.
I am going to study here at home, and fit myself for the profession of teaching, just as well as one can be fitted by selfstudy when it is supported by a strong will, and perseverance.
I had already thought of this plan, but Mevrouw Abendanon gave it the impetus which pushed it forward, when she suggested some time ago that, without waiting for further arbitraments of capricious fate, we three go ahead and study here at home.
We have had a governess for two months; in her we have found a charming and affectionate friend. She is still very young, a girl of strong character who has left her family in the fatherland and come here to earn her daily bread.

Dutch has always been my favorite study, and many people say that I am thoroughly at home in it. But, heavens! fondness for a language is a very long way from knowledge of it. It is fortunate that I like Dutch so much, for I can understand easily how hard it must be for people who do not like the language, and yet are obliged to study it. Next to languages I like geology. I also enjoy mathematics, but I am still struggling with the groundwork of history. Not that I do not like history; I think it is interesting and very instructive; but the manner in which it is set down in schoolbooks has little charm for me. I should like to have a teacher who knew how to make the dry parts interesting. What I do think delightful is ancient history; it is a pity that, so little of it has come my way. I should love to study the history of the Egyptians, and of the old Greeks and Romans.

I read in the paper that some Chinese girls had asked permission to take the teacher’s examinations. Hurrah for progress! I feel like shouting aloud in my joy. Of what good is the preservation of a few old traditions? We see now that the strongest and oldest traditions can be broken; and that gives me courage and hope. I should like to meet the gallant little Chinese girls; I should be so glad to know something of their thoughts and feelings — their ‘soul.’

I have always longed to have a Chinese girl for a friend. I have often wondered about the inner life of such a girl. It must certainly be full of poetry.
During the last year I often heard something about myself which distresses me. I am a coquette. Do not spare me, but answer outright. Am I a coquette? and if so, in what way? I am seriously troubled, for I dislike anything that is inconstant.
Someone, no slanderer, said that I speak with my eyes. Is that true? I have asked my sister to watch me well, and to tell me what they see in me that is strange; what there is in the play of my eyes. And my truth-loving little sister says — she is always conscientious — that my eyes dance as if they were saying much when I talk long — never mind with whom. Believe me when I say that I do not do it intentionally; that I have no thought of pleasing; and that, if what she says is true, it is unconscious and in spite of myself.
It is a strange sensation, when one has always thought one’s self a serious, candid girl, to hear all at once that one is a coquettish creature. I was astonished and distressed; I had never given the matter a thought, and would not be guilty of such conduct knowingly.
I am told that I must modestly (hypocritically) cast down my eyes. I will not do that: I will look men, as well as women, straight in the eyes, not cast down my own before them. I know very well that we shall be made to promise, perhaps under oath, when we go from here, that we will not bring to our families the terrible disgrace of sharing our love and sorrow with a European; on that point they can be at peace.
We would never think of such a thing; inevitably it would be wreaking destruction upon the whole cause. For our own sakes, we could not, we, who wish to set ourselves up as examples.
I am a child of Buddha, and it is taught that we should eat no animal food. When I was a child, I was very ill. The doctors could not help me, they could suggest nothing. Then a Chinese convict,⁴ who had been friendly with us children, begged to be allowed to help me. My parents consented, and I was healed. What the medicines of learned men could not accomplish was done by ‘quackery.' He healed me simply by giving me ashes to drink of the burnt-offerings dedicated to a Chinese idol. By drinking that potion, I became the child of that Chinese divinity, Santik-Kong of Welahao.
Our land is full of mysticism, of fairy tales, and of legends. You have certainly heard many times of the enviable calmness with which the Javanese meets the most frightful blows of destiny. It is Tekdir — foreordained, they say, and are submissive. The fate of every man is determined, even before he sees the light of life. Happiness and misery are meted out to him before his birth. No man may turn away that which God has decreed. But it is the duty of everyone to guard against misfortune as far as possible; only when it comes despite their efforts, is it Tekdir. And against Tekdir nothing in the world can prevail.
And now I am going to tell you something pleasant. While we waited for opportunities which were to come in the uncertain future, we began our work in earnest, just as we are. We have opened a little school here at home. It has now seven pupils, daughters of native chiefs. We have heard that others are coming, and from a distance.
Our school must not have the air of a school, or we that of schoolmistresses. It must be like a great household of which we are the mothers. We shall try and teach them love as we understand it, by word and deed.
Do you know We Two, by Edna Lyall? It is a very fine book. It treats of atheism and Christianity, of true Christianity and of its frightful perversion, of which, alas, there is so much in the world. The atheist, Luke Raeburn, is a great figure, and Erica Raeburn too is a noble character, who from a zealous atheist becomes a sincere and believing Christian. They were a father and daughter who loved each other devotedly, and depended each upon the other.
We read too the Soul of a People; that is about Buddhism and is a beautiful book. We are anxious now to read something about Judaism (do you not say that?). Perhaps Zangwill’s Dreams of the Ghetto will be what we seek.

(To be continued)