LETTERS OF A JAVANESE PRINCESS
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 Modjowamo. 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 Modjowamo, 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 Modjowamo, 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.
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