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 harasses 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 shore, 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 noble, 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 petition 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.