Letters of a Javanese Princess Part 20

x.x.xI

_February 18th, 1902._[1]

We know how to be merry and playful too, just to be young. The Sunday after we got your dear letter we went down to the sh.o.r.e, and last Sunday as well, we were there. We thought of you and we spoke of you. If you could only have been with us, to look at the wild play of the waves, and at the wonderful colours, which stretched before us at sun-set. There was a strong wind, more than once our hair was blown down and we had to hold on to our clothes to keep them from flying away. There was not only life in the trees and in the water, there was life in the girls, who ran up and down through the waves. We had such a delightful time! Our voices rose above the noise of the water; we laughed aloud. Those were the teachers, the stately princesses, who ran and sported in the waves with blown hair and blown garments. We were so happy, so young, and so gay!

Our attendants stood by staring and gaping with wide open mouths.

The next morning we went again to the sh.o.r.e; the sea was no longer bl.u.s.tering, the boundless stretch of water was calm. There were only little ripples playing upon the surface, and the sun-light danced in and out among them like brilliants.

We went into the sea, the ground was even, there were no pebbles, no sea-weed, no slime; we went far out till the water reached our chins.

The baboe on the sh.o.r.e grew frightened, we could no longer understand her, but she ran up and down like a mad woman, waving her arms and calling us back. We only laughed at her distress. In the distance, she saw our heads sway around as we danced, and our voices sounded over the water, raised in a merry little song.

When we went back to the house, we took with us a lively feeling of hunger, you may be sure. After we had eaten ravenously, Annie sat down to the piano. Out of the fullness of her heart, she played a "Danklied"

and we sang with her. It was as though we had grown half elf. Now quickly to work. In the back gallery our sewing stood ready; we sat at one table and worked busily, but it was not only the fingers that hurried along, our tongues were not idle and we were chattering and laughing and singing. In the twinkling of an eye, the time had gone by, and we must sit again at the table. At midday we took a little walk and wandered back to the sh.o.r.e.

After our walk, if it is not too dark, we usually drink tea in the garden, among the shrubs and flowers, and under the blue sky, where after awhile, a few stars and the pale gold moon come out. When we go in, we have music or we read together. When Annie plays the piano, we sit by her, and sew or write, for it is a delight to be able to work while there is music; the work goes so easily.

Cooking is also on our program. We practise that every day after the rice meal.

You and your husband must come to see us and rest here from that oppressive Batavia. Can you not come now? We shall expect you. Then you can amuse yourselves with our kind of life, which is so restful, so still, so quiet and so peaceful. We will take care of you and we shall have the help of the wind and the sea; and of the birds that greet us every morning with their songs.

Come, dear friends, come, and find fresh life in our modest, still, little place.

Of the wedding here, I shall only say that sister was a lovely bride.

She was married in wajang costume and looked beautiful. In the evening, at the reception, she looked like a fairy princess from the "Thousand and One Nights." She had on a golden crown, with a veil hanging down behind. It was a new idea, but I have no doubt that it will be imitated.

Resident Sijthoff was much interested in seeing sister for the last time as a young girl. He stayed through everything. He would have liked to press her hand in farewell, but that might not be. He could only greet her with his eyes.

As though carved in stone, she sat straight as an arrow, before the glittering golden canopy. Her head was held proudly high, and her eyes were looking straight ahead as though staring at the future that was so soon to be unravelled before her. There were none of the usual tears, but even strangers were affected. Only she and her two sisters were calm. Our emotions had been lulled to sleep by the Gamelan music, by incense, and the perfume of flowers. We were unmoved, we had looked forward to our parting as to something frightful, so every one was astonished. We are still stared at very hard, people are anxious to see how we hold up under the strain.

We talked to the Resident of our plans that very evening. Imagine our speaking at the end of a crowded feast about a cause which is so earnest and so sacred; but it was our only opportunity to talk to him alone, and we had to make the most of it. Alone! all around us there were people, and still more people. Surrounded by evergreens and flowers, with a s.h.i.+mmer of silk, and the glitter of gold and jewels before our eyes, amid the buzzing of a thousand voices, in a very sea of light, we sat there at midnight, with champagne gla.s.ses in our hands, to speak of grave matters.

We were afraid that he would laugh at us or at least think us "silly."

But we did not let him frighten us. He talked first with me, and then with Roekmini, separately; to make sure that our ideas were our own and not borrowed from each other.

I have a request to make of you, an important one; when you see your friend, Dr. Snouck-Hurgronje, ask him if, among the Mohammedans, there are laws of majority, as among you. Or should I write myself to his Excellency for enlightenment? There are some things I should be so glad to know about the rights and duties, or, better still, the laws concerning the Mohammedan wife and daughter. How strange for me to ask!

It makes me ashamed that we do not know ourselves. We know so bitterly little.

[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

x.x.xII

_February 28, 1902._[1]

The influence of blood cannot be denied. I attach a certain value to the descent of every one around me, and I have an idea that I shall be blessed by the ancestors of those persons whom I love and honour. I am eager to read the books you have sent me and I hope to be able to understand them easily. Do you not think me a little stupid? I am only a great child, who longs very much to be loved, and who longs too for knowledge and understanding.

Understanding is a very difficult art. Is it not so, Dearest?

But when one understands, one judges mercifully, and one forgives.

It is Friday evening; Gamelan evening. Our souls are wafted up to the blue heaven of our fancy by the sweet serene tones that are borne to us on the evening wind from the pendopo.

Let us dream as long as it is possible; if there were no dreams, what would life be?

We have taken away all the little trifles and ornaments from our room.

It is no longer the joyful girls' room, where we dreamed dreams, where we wept, thought, felt, rejoiced and struggled! Only our book-case remains unchanged, and our old friends smile at us still in their friendly, confident and encouraging way.

One of our best friends, who is no longer ornamental because he has grown old-fas.h.i.+oned, shows very plainly whenever the door is opened. Our dear, true, old friend. Many people would turn up their noses at him, but we love him because he has never left us, but has rejoiced with us in happy days; and through dark troubled ones, he has comforted and supported us. He is De Genestet. He has been such a consolation to us of late.

[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.

x.x.xIII

_March 5th, 1902._[1]

Do you know who has painted so many wajangs for us? It is one of our gamelan players. The art of painting is part of the air in j.a.para.

Little urchins, buffalo boys, draw excellent wajangs, in the sand, on the walls, on bridges, on the supports of bridges. The wall behind our house is always covered with wajang figures. All the bridge supports erected today are covered with them tomorrow, drawn with charcoal or with a little piece of soap-stone by naked, dirty little apes. Favored land our j.a.para. You do not know how proud we are of our dear, quiet place.

The grave of the Sultan of Mantangan is half an hour's ride, or somewhat more from here. There is a whole connected narrative about the sultan's grave, for it is a holy tomb. When the sultan came back from China, a Chinese followed him and lies buried in the same place; over his grave there is a patje tree. Miraculous powers are ascribed to this tree.

Barren women, who would gladly have a child, go there and take the sultan flowers and incense wafers. When a patje fruit falls upon the grave of the Chinaman, the woman must take it away, make it into a stew, and eat it; her wish will then be granted. We have been told the names of persons who had obtained their wishes in this way.

You see that the Javanese are a superst.i.tious people fond of myths and fairy tales. It is said that the children with which the Sultan of Mantangan blesses the childless, will all be girls. Poor childless ones!

We shall have to look for a holy tomb that will bless the world with boys, for there are all too many women in the world!

It was uphill work to make our artists carve wajang dolls. They were frightened to death for fear the wajang spirits would be angry with them. Father a.s.sured them that he would take all responsibility, that all consequences would be upon his own head, and that the anger and wrath of the spirits would smite him alone, the task-master, and not the workmen who had merely carried out his will.

It was most difficult to take a photograph in the Kampong. A superst.i.tion says that one shortens one's own life when one allows a photograph to be taken, and that a photographer is a great sinner; all the portraits that he makes will demand their lives of him in the after life.

[1] To Mevrouw Abendanon.