_August 1900._[1]
"What language, however powerful, can express every emotion of the soul.
It can not be done, it is impossible."
I believe with you that it is impossible, at least as far as writing and
speaking go, but there is a silent secret language which never expresses
itself in words, or written signs, and yet is understood and
comprehended by every one who has faith, because in its whole vocabulary
the little word "lie" is unknown.
It is the pure chaste language of the eyes, the clear mirrors of the
soul, and if you could have seen me this morning as five delicate,
scented leaves quivered in my trembling hands, and warm tears coursed
down my cheeks, you could, without hearing a single sound from my lips,
have understood what I felt. Neither the mouth nor the pen can express
it, but the eyes drowned in a flood of tears were raised on high as
though to seek among the angels of God the ones who with tender wings
came down to us, who were sad and wept bitterly upon earth, to comfort,
and fill us with heavenly joy.
Every heart beat, every pulse beat, and each indrawing of the breath was
a prayer of thanksgiving.
We are only ordinary human beings, a mixture of evil and of good like
millions of others. Can it be that at first glance there is more of good
than evil in us? One doesn't have to seek far for the cause of this;
when one lives among innocent surroundings, it is not hard to be good,
one does that of oneself. And, it is certainly no credit to do no evil
when one has had no opportunity. Later when we have flown from the warm
parental nest and are in the midst of ordinary human life, where no
faithful parent's arm is thrown protectingly around us, when the storms
of life rage and rave above our heads, and no loving hands support us,
and hold us fast as our feet waver--then for the first time, you will
see what we are. Oh! I pray so fervently that we may never add to the
mountain of disappointment which life has already brought to you;
another just as fervent prayer, do not think us beautiful; it cannot be
otherwise, some day you will be disappointed, and that would cause us
bitter grief.
Now slowly by bits and pieces I shall tell you truthfully nearly all
that I can about ourselves, so that you can have some insight into our
true characters, and will not in your great goodness endow us with fine
attributes, which we have not. Still a whole lifetime lies before us;
let us see what can be made of it.
* * * * *
"I feel so much for the cause of woman, I am touched by her fate; she is
still unappreciated and misunderstood in many lands even in this our age
of light. I would help her so earnestly, and so willingly." Thank you
for these splendid sympathetic words. In them, your great compassion
speaks, your deep pity for the suffering of woman who through the ages
has endured wrong from her fellow creature--man. I thank God that there
are some who are noble in heart and spirit, and feel for the sad fate of
our native women, and wish to send light into their poor, dark world.
White sister, with your warm deep-feeling heart, your pure eyes, your
rich spirit, reach your hand to us; help us out of this pool of grief
and misery into which the selfishness of men has plunged us, and holds
us fast. Help us to overcome the relentless egoism of man--that demon
which for centuries has held the woman lashed, imprisoned, so that
accustomed as she is to ill treatment she sees no injustice but submits
with stoicism to what seems the "good right" of the man, and an
inheritance of sorrow to every woman. I am still young, but I am not
deaf nor blind and I have heard and seen much, too much, it may he, so
that my heart is drawn with pain and I am swept violently forward in
opposition to those customs and conventions which are the curse of women
and children!
Helpless in bitter grief, I wring my hands and feel myself powerless to
fight against an evil so gigantic! and which, O Cruelty! is under the
protection of the Mohammedan Law, and is fed by the ignorance of the
women themselves, the victims of the sacrifice. Fate allows that cruel
wrong which is called polygamy to stalk abroad in the land--"I will not
have it," cries the mouth vehemently and the heart echoes the cry a
thousand fold, but alas--to will! Have we human beings a will? It is
always, we must, _must_ do everything, from our first infant cry till
our last breath.
Life is full of dark riddles and of secrets. We think that we know so
much, and all the time we know nothing! We think that we have a will, an
iron will, and picture ourselves strong enough to move mountains--then a
burning tear, a sorrowful look from eyes that we love, and our strength
is gone.
Let me tell you a story that is neither amusing nor interesting, but
dull, monotonous and long drawn out, and which will demand much
patience. First I ask your forgiveness, humbly, for the weary hour I am
going to cause you.
It is the history of three brown girls, children of the sunny East; born
blind, but whose eyes have been opened so that they can see the
beautiful, noble things in life. And now, that their eyes have grown
accustomed to the light, now that they have learned to love the sun and
everything that is in the brilliant world; they are about to have the
blinders pressed back against their eyes, and to be plunged into the
darkness from which they had come, and in which each and every one of
their grandmothers back through the ages had lived.
It is said that books full of "nonsense" came from the distant West and
penetrated the heart of the "Binnenland," that quiet peaceful place on
Java's ever green coast, where the sisters dwelt, that these rebellious
ones were unwilling to bear the yoke which had been borne meekly and
patiently by all women before them, and which now hangs suspended above
them, so that any second it may be dropped upon their unwilling
shoulders.
People are wrong. It is not only the books that have made them
rebellious, conditions have done that, conditions that have existed from
time immemorial, and which are a curse, a curse--to every one who
happens to be born a woman or a girl.
Already in her earliest youth when emancipation was for her an unknown
word, and when books and other writings which spoke of it, were far
beyond her reach, in one of the three sisters was born the desire to
open the door of life.
It was recreation hour at the European school at Japara. Under the
yellow blossoming waroe trees in the schoolyard, big and little girls
were grouped in happy disorder. It was so warm that no one cared to
play.
"Shut your book, Letsy, I have something to tell you," pleaded a brown
girl, whose costume and headdress betrayed the Javanese.
A great blond girl, who leaned against the trunk of a tree reading
eagerly in a book, turned around and said, "No, I have to study my
French lesson."
"You can do that at home, for it is not school work."
"Yes, but if I do not learn my French lessons well, I shall not be
allowed to go to Holland year after next; and I am so anxious to go
there to study at the Normal School. When I come back later as a
teacher, perhaps I shall be placed here; and then I shall sit on the
platform before the class as our teacher does now. But tell me, Ni, you
have never yet said what you were going to be when you grew up."
Two large eyes were turned toward the speaker in astonishment.
"Only tell me."