Letters of a Javanese princess/Chapter 4
IV[1]
O DEAREST, dearest Mevrouwtje, what a delightful Sunday we had yesterday!
Father went out with my little brother, and after awhile they came back home. Brother, with great excitement, ran to me and said, "0 sister, there is a man-of-war in the harbour; all the streets are filled with sailors, and two of them have come home with us, they are with Father now."
At the word "warship," we sprang up as though we had been shot, and before brother had finished speaking, we flew to our room to make ready. We saw two gentlemen dressed in white, come hesitating — through the grounds. After a little while, we saw them sitting with Pa in the middle gallery. Later, a boy came to us, saying that we must go to Father, which we did with the greatest willingness. One, two, three, and we had slipped on our best kabaais,[2] and a second later we were sitting in rocking-chairs talking to two officers from the Edie. I do not know how it came about, but we were immediately at our ease and spoke to the gentlemen as though we had known them for years. But how did these people happen to come to kaboepatin? I will explain that to you. Papa went, as I have said, for a little drive; he met five gentlemen walking, three of them turned another way, but these two had followed Papa's carriage in to the kaboepatin. They thought (the gentlemen were new to Java) that the way the carriage took was a public road, and our house a fortress or something of the kind.
Papa sent a servant to ask the gentlemen if they wished to see him. They were embarrassed, naturally, because they had made such a mis- take and followed some one to his own house. What would they do now? They did not find it pleasant by any means, because they did not understand our language, and spoke only very bad, broken Malayish. Papa put an end to this awkward situation by going to meet them himself, and addressing them in Dutch. Embarrassment was at an end. They would come with pleasure into the house.
It turned out that one of them was a relative of some one whom Papa knew well. I do not remember to have ever felt so much at my ease with an utter stranger. I did not think once of the fact that I had never seen these people before, and had not known of their existence five minutes ago. It is strange how with sailors one feels at home right away.
Our hearts have always been set upon the sea; everything that concerns it interests us. You know well what a delight it is to us to be taken out even in a little row boat. We love the sea; you remember the time when I lay half -dead in the bow of the opium skiff, even then I found it pleasant to be upon such a bed? If I were a boy, I should not think twice, but would become a sailor at once.
Imagine to yourself Father saying to the gentlemen, "My daughters would be so pleased if they could be permitted to go on board."
Father knows everything that goes on in our hearts. Father does not tell us so, yet I am certain of it. Now and then Papa tells one or the other of us precisely what we have been thinking ; something that we had kept to ourselves and never told to any one. It is without doubt, because Father loves us so much, and we so love him. Every now and then he discovers something, and lays it bare, that had been in the bottom of my heart, and of which I had thought no one except myself had the slightest idea. Does not that show true kinship of soul?
If I were more superstitious, I should certainly think that Papa could read thoughts.
But I am telling you now of the pleasant Sunday morning, and not of the secret telephone-cable that runs from our hearts to that of our dearest Father.
The officers regretted so much that the Edie would not remain longer in our harbour. It would have been such a pleasure to them to have had us on board. The Edie must go to look for reefs on Karimoen Djawa, though the commander thought Japara interesting. Both gentlemen were going to do everything in their power to persuade the Commandant to come back; for if the Edie set out from Soerabaja on Monday, either Saturday or Sunday she could be back at Japara. If fortune should bring the Edie here on Saturday, then they will let us know of their presence by letting loose their fire-mouths (cannon). I have no idea that they will, but still it would be above all things pleasant if the boat should come again.
I told the gentlemen that if they passed Japara again, they must break a screw or something, near our coast, so that the ship would be obliged to lay up in our harbour for repairs.
When the officers had gone, and we were back in our room, we thought it had been a dream. And truly it was as though we had dreamed. So suddenly, so unexpectedly, had they appeared to us, and again as suddenly had they vanished. A very pleasant happening—do you not think so too? I still have to laugh whenever I think of that funny adventure.
O little Mother, dearest Mevrouwtje, I wish that you were back with us. Your daughters miss you so much. We long for the pleasant days that we spent with you to come again: the splendid times that we used to have in your dear little sitting-room, where you would read to us from great books, and where we spoke of so much, the memory of which shall always remain with us. I miss the intimate talks with you, when I used to tell my dear little mother all the rebellious thoughts that came into my head, and laid bare the feelings of my restless heart. When I was in a rebellious mood, I had but to see the love light in your face, and I was again the happy, careless child, that, in overflowing good spirits, could sing: "Whatever Heaven to me shall send, I'll set my shoulders bravely under."
Mevrouwtje, you gave us too much care; spoiled us too much. Now we do nothing but wish for those happy days to come back. And although we long for you, yet we hope that the journey to Djombang will be put off as long as possible. Why? We know—we feel, that at Djombang, we shall see each other for the last time. Seeing you again will mean farewell for good. You will not come to Japara again, and we shall never be able to go to you. For that reason, let the journey be put off as long as possible. It is splendid to have a pleasure to look forward to; so we should like to prolong the feeling of anticipation. Once more the joy of meeting again, and then—all the prettiness will be over. No it will not be over even then, the memory will be with us.
We shall still be happy as long as you think of us and love us. You know very well, dear little Mother, that love is nothing but egoism. I think there is nothing finer than to be able to call a happy smile to a loved mouth—to see the sunshine break over another's face. Nothing is more splendid than to have a pair of dear eyes look at one full of love and happiness; then it is that one feels guilty for very joy.
How pleasant that Kokki also remembers us.