_October 11th, 1902._[1]
I feel some anxiety as to who will carry on our work in directing the
wood carving after we have gone away. Our little sisters are too young,
and there is the financial responsibility as well. If a European comes
here, naturally our artists will be exploited merely for his own profit;
the one who devotes himself to this work should be disinterested and
have in his heart a love for art and a love for Java.
* * * * *
The world says that everything spontaneous must be suppressed, and
everything that differs from it, is necessarily soiled and smirched. In
all ages, the way of the idealist has been hard. No deviation from the
set type is suffered. Every one who is not like the rest of the world,
is tormented all his life, unless he throws away his own coat, and in
its stead draws on the coat of custom.
* * * * *
I do not want to promise you anything, Stella, for I am not sure that I
should be able to keep my promise. Do you think Modjowarno so frightful?
Which would you prefer, that we should go crazy here at home, or that we
seek healing for the wounds in our souls there? If we are disappointed
in our plans, we are determined that we will not remain any longer
cloistered and imprisoned here for petty, futile reasons. We will not
submit to conditions which we detest and despise with all our hearts.
The enemy abroad does not frighten us, but the enemy in our own country
eats into our souls. Nothing can help us but God.
Now do not say that you will be cast down and sad, when you receive a
letter telling you to address me at Modjowarno. The idea has no terror
for me. It is true that we shall go there with lacerated hearts, but
that will not be the fault of Modjowarno, and even there, all will not
be lost, Stella. You have often encouraged me to use my pen--I shall
still have that, and there I shall have nothing to lose and nothing to
venture save myself. Here I should venture much, if I said what I really
think. If I became a teacher, I should be striking my own calling dead,
because those whom I had offended would gird on their armour and hunt me
down.
I have already said that we would not go to Modjowarno, save with deeply
wounded souls. Do you know the effect that would have upon my pen?
Nothing speaks so to the heart like suffering. And even I have made eyes
grow wet. You know me too well, I hope, to accuse me of vanity when I
say that. It is only to show you how very much the worth of a pen rises
when one has heart's blood for ink.
A few months ago, some one wholly unknown to me burst out crying when
she read some words of mine. She felt how I had suffered when the words
flowed from my pen. She was so affected that she wished to begin work at
once for the alleviation of the misery of which I had written. The next
day she even offered to help us; alas, only to withdraw the offer a few
days later, through the working of reason.
People think that they are pleasing me, when they assure me that I write
"splendidly." What does it amount to? I want what I write to make a
lasting impression, Stella, and I can only do that when I have had
experience. When my heart has been written upon, then--only then--will
what I say be of worth.
[1] To Mejuffrouw Zeehandelaar.