Tunku Ibrahim was just past seventeen when his father, the Sultan
Abubaker, chose to recognize him as his heir and Crown Prince of
Johore.
From the day when the little prince had been deemed old enough to leave
his mother and the women's palace until the day he had entered the
native artillery as a lieutenant, he had been schooled and trained by
the English missionaries and the Tuan Kadi, or Mohammedan high priest,
as becomes a son of so illustrious a father.
Tunku Ibrahim had made one trip to England when he was fifteen years
old, and with his little cousin, the Tunku, or Prince, Othman, had
dined with the Queen at Windsor.
So, when the Sultan returned from a long stay at Carlsbad and found
that the Sultana was dead and that Ibrahim had shot up into a man,
he said:--
"I am getting to be an old man and may die at any time. I will call
all my nobles and people to the palace, and they shall see me place the
crown on Ibrahim's head. Then if I die, he will rule, and the British
will not take his country from him as long as he is wise and kingly."
Whereupon his Highness sent out invitations to the Governor and all
the foreign consuls in Singapore to be his guests and witness the
crowning of his son.
We started in quaint little box-like carriages, called gharries, long
before the fierce Malayan sun had risen above the palms, accomplishing
the fourteen miles across the beautiful island in little over an hour.
The diminutive Deli ponies, not larger than Newfoundland dogs,
broke into a run the moment we closed the lattice doors, and it was
all their half-naked drivers could do to keep their perches on the
swaying shafts.
When we arrived at the little half-Malay, half-Chinese village of
Kranji, on the shores of the famous old Straits of Malacca, our
ponies were panting with heat, and the sun beat down on our white
cork helmets with a quivering, naked intensity.
Close up to the shore we found a long, keel boat manned by a dozen
Malays in canary-colored suits. An aide-de-camp in a gorgeous uniform
of gold and blue came forward and touched his forehead with the back
of his brown palm and said in good English:--
"His Highness awaits your excellencies."
We stepped into the boat. The men lightly dipped their spear-shaped
paddles in the tepid water, the rattan oarlocks squeaked shrilly,
and the light prow shot out into the strait. We could see the istana,
or palace, close down to the opposite shore, with the royal standard
of white, with black star and crescent in centre, floating above it.
For a moment I felt as though I had invaded some dreamland of my
childhood.
As our boat drew up to the iron pier that extended from the broad
palace steps out into the straits, the guns from the little fort on the
hill above the town boomed out a welcome and the flags of our several
countries were run to the tops of the poles. A squad of native soldiers
presented arms, and we were conducted up the stone steps, to the cool,
dim corridors of the reception or waiting room. Malays in red fezzes
and silken sarongs that hung about their legs like skirts conducted us
along a marble hall to our rooms in a wing of the palace. Crowds were
already gathering outside on the palace grounds, and we could look down
from our windows and watch them as we bathed, dressed, and drank tea.
The Chinese in their holiday pantaloons and shirts of pink, lavender,
and blue silk: outnumbered all the other races; for, strange as it
may seem, this Malay Sultan numbers among his 250,000 or 300,000
subjects 175,000 Chinamen. They are as loyal and a great deal more
industrious than the Malays, and many of them, styled Baboos, do not
even know their native tongue.
The Malays, dressed in gayly colored sarongs and bajus (jackets),
with little rimless caps on their heads, squatted on their heels and
chewed betel-nut, with eyes half closed and mouths distended.
The Arab traders and shopkeepers were grouped about in little knots,
gravely conversing and watching the files of gharries or carriages,
and even rickshaws, that were bringing Malay unkus (princes not of
the royal blood), patos (peers), holy men, and rich Chinese mandarins
to the steps that led up to the plaza before the throne-room.
The palace was two stories high, long and narrow. The interior rooms
were separated from the outer walls by wide, airy corridors. The
lattice-work windows were without glass and were arranged to admit
the breezes from the ocean and ward off the searching rays of the
equatorial sun. In these dusky corridors were long rattan chairs,
divans, and tables covered with refreshments, and along its walls
were arranged weapons of war and chase, Japanese suits of straw armor,
Javanese shields, and Malay krises and limbings.
In a little court at the end of our corridor, where a fountain splashed
over a clump of lotus flowers and blue water lilies, a long-armed
silver wah-wah monkey played with a black Malay cat that had a kink
in its tail like the joint in a stovepipe, and chased the clucking
little gray lizards up the polished walls.
The gorgeous aide stared in poorly concealed wonderment, when he
entered to conduct us to the grand salon, at my plain evening dress
suit, destitute of gold lace or decorations, but he was too polite to
say anything, and I humbly followed my uniformed colleagues through the
long suite of rooms. It would have been useless for me to have tried to
explain the great American doctrine of "Jeffersonian simplicity." He
would have shrugged his narrow shoulders, which would have meant,
"When you are among Romans, you should do as Romans do."
In the grand salon, more than in any other part of the palace, one
feels that he is in the home of an Oriental prince whose tastes far
outrun his own dominions.
Velvet carpets from Holland, divans from Turkey, rugs from Bokhara,
tapestries from Persia, and lace from France mingle with embroideries
from China, cut glass from England, and rare old Satsuma ware from
Japan. On a grand square German piano is a mass of music in which
the masterpieces of all countries have equal rights with the national
anthem of Johore.
Going directly through a mass of Oriental drapery, we are in the
throne-room, where are gathered the nobility of the little Sultanate.
Amid the crash of music and the booming of guns the Sultan took his
seat in one of the gilded chairs on the dais, with the English Governor
on his left. Ranged about the burnished walls of the great room,
several files deep, were the nobility of the kingdom, the ministers of
state, and officers of the army and navy, the space back of them being
filled with Chinese mandarins and towkoys, and rich native merchants
in their picturesque costumes. In front of the nobility, standing in
the form of a square, were the sons of the datos each bearing golden,
jewel-studded chogans, spears, krises, and maces. Inside the square
stood the fifteen consuls. Back of the throne were four young princes,
two bearing each the golden bejewelled kris of the Malay, another
the golden sword of state, and the fourth the cimeter of the Prophet.
Up to the steps of the throne came the young prince, dressed in the
uniform of a lieutenant of artillery, with the royal order of Darjah
Krabat ablaze with jewels on his breast. He was slightly taller than
his father, the Sultan, straight, graceful, and handsome, with big,
brown eyes and strongly marked features. He was nervous and agitated,
and his lips trembled as he bent on one knee and kissed his Highness's
hand.
Above our heads in the gilded walls, behind a grated opening, were
Inche Kitega, the Sultan's beautiful Circassian wife, and the women
of the court. We could see their black eyes as they peered curiously
down. It was only when the Dato Mentri, or Prime Minister, stood
up and asked his people if they wished the young Tunku to be their
future lord that we could hear their shrill voices mingling with the
"Suku, suku" ("We wish it, we wish it"), of the men.
It is only the wives of the nobles that are secluded in the istana
isaras, or women palaces, according to Mohammedan law; the women of
the poor are as free as the more civilized countries of Europe. They
bask in the sun with their brown babies on their laps, or wander
among the cocoanuts that always surround their palm-thatched homes,
happy and contented, with no thought for the morrow. The trees furnish
them their food, and a few hours before their looms of dark kamooning
wood each week keep them supplied with their one article of dress--the
sarong. They never heard of the Bible, but they are very religious,
and at sunrise and sunset, at the deep-toned boom of the hollow log
that hangs before their little thatched mosques, they fall on their
faces and pray to "Allah, the All Merciful and Loving Kind."
When the Crown Prince had stepped modestly back among his brothers
and cousins, a holy man in green robes and turban came forward and
read an address in Arabic. He recited the glories of the Prophet,
the promises of the Koran, and then told of the ancient greatness of
Johore,--how it once ruled the great peninsula that forever points
like a lean, disjointed finger down into the heart of the greatest
archipelago of the world,--how its ruler was looked up to and made
treaties with, by the kings of Europe,--of the coming of the thieving
Portuguese and the brutal Dutch,--of the dark, bloody years when the
deposed descendants of the once proud Emperors of Johore turned to
piracy,--of the new days that commenced when that great Englishman,
Sir Stamford Raffles, founded Singapore,--down to the glorious reign
of the present just ruler, Abubaker.
Our eyes wandered from time to time out through the cool marble courts
and tried vainly to pierce the botanic chaos that crowded close up
to the palace grounds. Banian and sacred waringhan trees covered
great stretches of ground, and dropped their fantastic roots into the
steaming earth like living stalactites. The fan-shaped, water-hoarding
traveller's palm formed a background for the brilliant magenta-colored
bougainvillea. The dim, translucent depths of an orchid-house lured
us on, or a great pond covered with the sacred lotus, blue lilies,
and the flush-colored cups of the superb Victoria regia commanded
our admiration. Palms, flowering shrubs, ferns, and creepers rioted
on all sides. Monkeys swung above in the ropelike tendrils of the
rubber-vines, and spotted deer gamboled beneath the shade of mango
trees.
The brilliant audience listened with bated breath to the dramatic
recital of their nation's story. Even we, who did not understand
a word, were impressed by their flushed faces and eager attention,
and when the band in the columned corridors beyond broke forth into
the national anthem of Johore and the vast concourse outside took up
the shouts of fealty that began within, I, for one, felt an almost
irresistible desire to join in the shouts and do honor to the kindly
old Sultan and his graceful son.
After his Highness, the Sultan, had spoken, through the mouth of
his Prime Minister, to the nobles, and commended his son to their
care, we crowded forward and congratulated him in the names of our
respective countries.
We filed through the grand salon, with its luxurious medley of divans,
tapestries, and rugs, through a great hall whose walls were hung with
heroic-sized paintings of the English royal family, down a flight of
steps, across the marble reception room, and into the open doors of
the royal dining room.
From its polished ceiling of black billion wood hung great white
punkahs, which half-nude Indians on the outside kept gently swaying
back and forth.
In the centre of the vast table stood a golden urn filled with
delicate maidenhair ferns and dragon orchids. Against a great
plate-glass mirror, at the far end, rested massive salvers of gold,
engraven with the arms of Johore, and in its flawless depths shone
the jewels that decked the entering throng and the splendid service
of plate that dazzled our eyes.
Around his Highness's throat was a collar of diamonds and on his hands
and in the decorations that covered his breast were diamonds, emeralds,
and rubies, of almost priceless value. Each button of his coat and
low-cut vest was a diamond, and from the front of his rimless cap
waved a plume of diamonds. On his wrists were heavy gold bracelets
of Malayan workmanship, and his fingers were cramped with almost
priceless rings. In his buttonhole blazed a diamond orchid. The
handle and scabbard of his sword were a solid mass of precious
stones. Altogether this little known Oriental potentate possessed
$10,000,000 worth of diamonds, the second largest collection on earth.
In personal appearance his Highness compared favorably with the best
representatives of the Anglo-Saxon race. He was five feet eight in
height, well built, with clean-cut, kindly features, in color nearer
the Spanish type than the Indian. His hands and feet were small,
forehead high and full, lips thin, and nose aquiline, his hair and
mustache iron gray. He spoke good English, and was able to converse in
French and German. In every-day dress he affected the English Prince
Albert suit, to which he added a narrow silk sarong and a rimless
black cap.
Besides being a lover of jewels, his Highness was a lover of good
horseflesh and of yachts. His stud comprised two hundred horses, among
which were fleet Arabians, sturdy little Deli ponies, thoroughbred
Australians, and Indian galloways. Twice a year he offered a cup at
the Singapore jockey races, and entered a half dozen of his best
runners. At his tent on the grounds he dispensed champagne, ices,
and cakes, and his native band of thirty pieces played alternately
with the regimental band from the English barracks.
His three hundred ton steam-launch was built on the Clyde. Besides
the Sultan's saloon on the lower deck, which was furnished befitting a
king, there were cabins for ten people. The promenade deck was under
an awning, and was furnished with a heavy rosewood dining-table and
long chairs. She carried four guns of long range.
The revenue of Johore amounts to six million dollars a year, to
which the Sultan's private property in Singapore adds nearly a half
million more. The bulk of the national revenue is raised from opium,
spirits, and gambling. The scheme of taxation is simple, but most
effective. Any Chinaman who has a longing for the pipe pays into his
Highness's treasury one dollar a month, and is granted a permit to buy
and smoke opium; another monthly dollar and he is licensed to drink.
The gambling privilege is given to the highest bidder, and he has the
monopoly for the kingdom. There is also a small export tax on gambier
and tin. On the other hand, any immigrant that wishes to settle and
open a farm of any kind is given all the ground he can work, rent free,
to have and to hold as long as he keeps it under cultivation. Should
he leave, it reverts with all its improvements to the crown.
The government is autocratic, but tempered and kept in sympathy
with the English ideas of justice as seen in the great colonies that
surround it.
The dinner throughout was European, save for the one national
dish, curry. Every Malay, from the poorest fisherman along the
mangrove-fretted lagoon to the chef of his Highness's kitchen, justly
boasts of the excellence of his curry and the number of sambuls he
can make.
First came a golden bowl filled with rice, as white and as light
as snow; then another, in which was a gravy of yellow curry powder,
choice bits of fowl, and plump, fresh slices of egg-plant. Then came
the sambuls, or condiments, more than forty varieties, in little
circular dishes of Japanese ware on big silver trays. There were
fish-roes, ginger, and dried fish, or "Bombay duck," duck's eggs
hashed with spices, chutney, peppers, grated cocoanut, anchovies,
browned crumbs, chicken livers, fried bananas, barley sprouts, onions,
and many more, that were mixed and stirred into the spongy rice until
your taste was baffled and your senses bewildered.
We knew that the curry was coming, so we passed courses that were
as expensive and rare in this equatorial land as the fruit of the
durians would be in New York,--mutton from Shanghai, turkey from Siam,
beef from Australia, and oysters from far up the river Maur. We felt
that besides being a pleasure to ourselves it was a compliment to
our royal host to partake generously of his national dish.
"This service," said the old Tuan Hakim, or chief justice, pointing to
the gold plate off which we were dining, "is the famous Ellinborough
plate that once belonged to that strange woman, Lady Ellinborough. His
Highness attended the auction of her things in Scotland. Do you
see the little Arabic character on the rim of each? It is the late
Sultana's name. His Highness telegraphed to her for the money to pay
for it, and she telegraphed back two hundred thousand dollars, with
the request that her name be engraved on each. Then she presented
them to her husband. The Sultana was very rich in her own right,
and left the Sultan over two million dollars when she died."
Throughout the long dinner the native band played the airs of Europe
and America, intermixed with bits of weird Malayan song. After we
had lighted our cigars from the golden censer, the British Governor
arose and proposed the health of the Sultan and the young heir
apparent. His Highness raised his glass of pineapple juice to his
lips in acknowledgment, and said smilingly to me as the Prime Minister
said the magic word that stirs every Englishman's heart,--
"The Queen!"
"Your people think all Orientals very bad."