Then began a very agreeable time, such as usually comes with a new
and interesting friendship. I think the Malay women as well as myself
were mutually interested in one another, and I encouraged the frequent
morning visits that one or another of the chieftains’ lady relations
paid to me. I somehow managed to make myself understood, although my
Malay must have sounded strange to them. Indeed, in their strenuous
endeavours to understand what I said, I sometimes noticed a strained--I
might almost say painful--expression flit across their faces. They were
much too kind, however, to laugh or smile, or even to show a moment’s
impatience. Little by little matters mended, and in a few weeks I
became more fluent.
[Illustration: DATU ISA AND HER GRAND-DAUGHTERS]
That mighty question of “chiffons,” which is usually thought to belong
only to European womenkind, seemed to me to play quite as important a
part in the minds of my new friends. One day, as I was admiring their
beautiful silks, satins, and golden ornaments, Datu Isa (who was,
you remember, the lady who had undertaken the care of me during the
Rajah’s absence) said to me in a very ceremonious manner, “You are
the wife of our Rajah, and you ought to wear our dress.” I was simply
delighted, and at once agreed. Lengthy discussions then took place as
to what colours I should choose, and where the things should be made.
Finally, the matter resolved itself into the Malay ladies joining
together, and insisting on providing me with the whole dress, and I
must say it was a beautiful one. The garment called “kain tape” (the
Malay name for a woman’s skirt) consists of a narrow sheath; this was
folded and tucked under my armpits, and made to cover my feet. It was
woven in red-and-gold brocade. My jacket was of dark blue satin, and
had gold rosettes sewn over it. The collar of the jacket was edged with
plaques of gold, fastening in front with a larger clasp, shaped like
outstretched wings. All down the sleeves of the jacket, which were
slashed up to the elbow, were tiny buttons of gold that jingled like
bells. A gauzy scarf of white and gold, obtained from Mecca, covered my
head, and a wide wrap of green silk and gold brocade was flung over the
left shoulder ready to cover my head and face when wearing the dress in
my walks abroad. According to Datu Isa, my right eye alone should peep
forth from the golden wrap on such occasions.
Datu Isa had a great many things to say as to the wearing of these
garments. “You are my child, Rajah Ranee,” she said, “and I have
thought a good deal as to whether, being a married woman, you ought
to wear golden ornaments, because it is the custom in our country
for virgins only to be thus decorated, but as you are the wife of our
Rajah, I think that your Malay dress should be as splendid as possible,
and we all agree that it will suit you well.” I did not share in this
opinion. I loved wearing the dress, because of its beauty, but if the
truth were told, a tall Englishwoman cannot expect to wear it with the
grace which belongs to those tiny frail-looking daughters of the sun.
They are all very small indeed, and the noiseless way they move about
lends additional beauty to the dress. No European woman, accustomed
as she is to freedom, exercise, and somewhat abrupt movements, can
possibly imitate with any degree of success the way in which they glide
about and manipulate their silken and gauzy draperies.
It is interesting to know the ideas Malay women entertain about the
wearing of these clothes. I was somewhat embarrassed with the length of
my sarong, ordered by Datu Isa, and arranged by her so that it should
fall in folds draggling on the ground. “Never mind, Rajah Ranee,” she
would say, “you will get accustomed to it by and by, and you must
remember that the Rajah’s wife never shows her feet.” “But why?” I said
to Datu Isa. “Because,” she answered, “she is never supposed to walk
about. She must have servants and subjects at her call every moment of
the day. Now, if you wear that dress properly, you would not fasten
it in very securely anywhere, but you would sit on cushions almost
motionless, because at the slightest movement your clothes would fall
off. The wives of the Sultan of Brunei never secure their kain tapes.”
This was all very well; moreover, it must be remembered that Datu Isa
was strictly conservative. Her ideas concerning ceremonial dress and
deportment in Sarawak were as rigid as were those of aristocratic old
ladies in Early Victorian days. But Datu Isa’s daughter-in-law, Daiang
Sahada, who is about my own age, reassured me when I felt a little
anxious as to whether I could play my part satisfactorily and not
derogate from the exalted position Datu Isa was always striving to put
me in. “We understand, Rajah Ranee,” she would say. “You must not be
too anxious; we all know Datu Isa; she is kind and good and you must
humour her. Little by little, she will understand, and will not mind if
you wear your kain tape so as to allow you to walk a yard or so.”
But talking of these sarongs and the wonderful cloths manufactured by
the women of Sarawak, it always surprises me when I consider, given the
idea that Sarawak was such an uncivilized country when the first Rajah
went there, and that its people were sunk in a state of barbarism, how
it was possible that the womenkind of the Malay population living in
the place evolved the marvellous embroideries and brocades that nearly
all the women of Sarawak are capable of weaving.
The patterns on these golden cloths are very similar, for no kain
tape worn by the better classes of Sarawak women is considered quite
correct unless the stuff, powdered all over its ground of red silk
with open rosettes made of gold thread, is divided by a broad band of
different pattern marked in gold thread in a series of Vandyck-shaped
lines, reminding one of the dog-tooth design. Inside each tooth is an
ornament, supposed by some to represent trees of life. This design is
apparently to be met with all over Malaya.
Nor is the making of these cloths at all an easy matter. To help to
amuse me and to while away the time, Datu Isa and her maidens brought
to the Astana a great loom prepared with golden and silk threads, to
teach me how to weave these brocades. The loom was so large that one
could sit inside it. A sort of pad made of wood supported one’s back
and acted as a lever with planks at one’s feet to keep the thread taut.
A shuttle in each hand threw the thread backwards and forwards in the
usual manner, but the effort of keeping the thread tight with one’s
back and feet was a somewhat fatiguing experience. I must confess I
never achieved many inches of these cloths, although it interested me
much to learn the Malay methods of weaving them.
Datu Isa sometimes brought with her a friend, whom I got to know
well. This lady was a Seripa, that is to say, a descendant of the
great Prophet himself. Such descendants are numerous all over the
Archipelago. I never quite made out how the many Serips[1] and
Seripas[5] I met in Sarawak traced their descent from the great
founder of Islam, but as their countrymen and women accepted their
great position, it must have been unassailable, and I never attempted
to solve the mystery. Seripa Madjena’s husband was also a Serip, for
female descendants of the Prophet may not marry out of their rank,
although Serips may marry whom they please. Serip Hussin was employed
as an overseer at one of the Rajah’s coffee plantations not far from
Kuching. Datu Isa told me, and I found out for myself, that Seripa
Madjena could do most wonderful embroideries. As she was a poor woman,
Datu Isa suggested that she should come so many hours a day to the
Astana to work for me and to teach me her craft. Most Malay women, as
I have said before, are able to embroider, and their methods greatly
interested me. My first lesson was conducted in this fashion. The
Seripa was seated in the middle of the floor of my sitting-room, and
the lady Datus, their friends, and I, were seated round her to watch
the proceedings. The Seripa asked for pieces of foolscap, which she
cut into broad bands of about nine or ten inches wide and about a yard
and a half in length. She then folded them into about five layers, and
with a sharp penknife began punching out the design through the top
layer. The penknife went in and out, cutting notches here, rounding
circles there, without any preliminary lines to guide it. In fact,
the Seripa was doing free-hand with a penknife! I had prepared boxes
of betel-nut and sirih for the refreshments of my guests. Datu Isa
never moved without her sirih box, and she prepared a mouthful of this
delicacy for me from her own store. She took a leaf of betel-vine,
smeared it with a little shell-lime, stuck a small portion of the
areca-nut on the lime, wrapped the leaf into a bundle, and presented
it to me. “Bagus sekali” (very nice), she said, and watched the effect
on me as I began munching at this Malay delicacy. I did not like it,
but did my best to appear as though I did. When the ladies present had
been presented with betel-nut and sirih, we sat chewing in a silence
only broken by ejaculations from the Seripa, together with long-drawn
sighs and invocations to Allah. “She is working in earnest,” said
Datu Isa. We all nodded assent, whilst giving vent to little grunts
of approval. The punching went on, and the little scraps of paper lay
like snow around the Seripa, who suddenly gave a louder sigh than
usual and a more lengthy invocation to Allah, and shaking the pattern
free from the cuttings of paper, we saw a delicate and flowing pattern
of conventional leaves, of birds and of fishes, rustling itself free
from her fingers to the floor. This improvised work over, she laid
layers of foolscap one over the other, stuck them together, laid her
prepared pattern on the top, and the punchings began afresh with the
penknife. When the design was all cut out, the strip was laid over
green satin stretched on a long, wooden frame, about a yard in length.
We had chosen green, as it is the colour of the Prophet. The perforated
pattern was stitched here and there on to the satin, and the Seripa
worked gold thread backwards and forwards over the cardboard, until
the design stood out from the satin background a compact mass of gold,
recalling to my mind certain medieval church embroideries I knew of in
Northern Italy, dating from the sixteenth century.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Arabic: Sherif and Sheripa.