During those first four years of my stay in Sarawak, the advent of
a little girl and twin boys served to show still more strongly the
affection and devotion of the people for their chief. Looking back to
that time, I cannot help remembering with pleasure the way in which the
people took my children to their hearts; the funny little jingling toys
they made to amuse them when they were quite babies; the solicitude
they showed for their health; the many times they invited them to their
houses, when I felt that they were even safer in their keeping than in
my own. All this often returns to my mind, and makes me feel more of a
Malay than ever.
One sad incident I must mention, if only to contradict the common idea
that Muhammadans are all fanatics and incapable of sympathy towards the
religious feelings of those who are outside their creed. Once, when
returning from a journey with the Rajah, I met with a bad accident. I
fell down the hold of a steamer, which resulted in one of my children,
a son, being born dead. When this happened, the Rajah had been called
away by urgent business up some of the far-off rivers of the interior.
Naturally, I was very ill, and the four Malay chiefs of the Rajah’s
Council were anxious to show their sympathy with me. When they heard
that the child had never lived, they went to the doctor and asked him
where it was to be buried. The doctor naturally referred them to the
Bishop, who had no other alternative but to decide that it could not
be buried in consecrated ground. But the chiefs thought differently.
They came that night to the Astana, bringing with them a coffin and
carried the little body to the consecrated ground on our side of the
river, where some of the Rajah’s relatives are laid. These chiefs dug
the grave themselves, and covered it over with a grass mound. I was
much too ill at the time to know what was going on, but I was told
afterwards that Datu Isa insisted on a tree of frangipani being planted
over the spot. I am sorry to say the tree died, but this additional
proof of those dear people’s sympathy can never fade from my memory.
The Rajah returned to Kuching immediately he heard the news, and in a
few weeks I began to mend. When I was well enough, Datu Isa sat with
me daily, and she said the event of my recovery must be marked by a
thanksgiving ceremony, for which an afternoon had to be set apart. “You
must lie quiet all the morning, Rajah Ranee,” she said, “and think
kind thoughts, so that your mind may be serene. I will appear at three
o’clock with my women.” I did not in the least know what she was going
to do. At three o’clock, according to her promise, Datu Isa headed a
long procession of my friends, who came to the door of my room. I was
told not to speak, and we were all as silent as the grave. Datu Isa
opened the door of my mosquito house; she carried in one hand a piece
of something that looked like dried shark’s skin, and in her other she
held a ring of pure gold. One of her daughters had a basket containing
grains of rice dyed with saffron. Datu Isa rubbed the ring against the
“something” two or three times, and then traced signs over my forehead
with the ring. She scattered a tiny pinch of gold dust on my hair,
and threw a handful of the yellow rice over me. “Thanks be to Allah,
Rajah Ranee, for you are well again.” I was just going to speak, but
she motioned me to be quite silent, and she and her women departed.
Being somewhat given to superstition, I feel sure that this quaint rite
hastened my recovery.
Before I close this chapter of the first years of my stay in Sarawak,
it would be ungrateful of me did I not mention the tokens of affection
and kindness I received from the English ladies of the place, almost
all of them having come to live in Kuching since my first arrival
there. Mrs. Crookshank, wife of the Resident of Sarawak; Mrs. Kemp,
then the wife of the Protestant Chaplain; indeed, all the ladies then
living in Kuching were always charming to me. We saw a great deal of
one another, and whenever any of these ladies left the country, their
absence from our tiny English society was very much felt.
As regards my relations with the Malay women, the Rajah himself
encouraged our friendship; he approved of my methods regarding them,
and sympathized with them most completely. Owing to his desire to make
the place more agreeable to me, he appointed my brother, Harry de
Windt, his private secretary. This was a great joy to me, my brother
and I being devoted to one another. I like to imagine that the interest
he took in Sarawak, and the many expeditions on which he accompanied
the Rajah, first inspired the travelling passion in him and led to his
future achievements in the many world-wide explorations, for which
(though he is my brother) I think I may rightly say he has become
famous. It was also during his stay in Sarawak that he wrote his first
book and began his career as an author.
So my first four years of residence in Sarawak passed away as a dream,
until it was realized that malaria and the climate made it impossible
for me to remain in the country without a change to England. Therefore
the Rajah made up his mind to go home for a year or so, for he himself,
with his incessant work, expeditions, and journeys here and there for
the good of the people, had suffered quite his share of fever. As we
stepped into the _Heartsease_, all my women friends congregated on the
lawn of the Astana to say good-bye to me. No need now to ask where
were the women, and no need now to send for them lest they might be
too frightened to come of their own accord. There they were, the best
friends I ever had, or ever hope to possess. I felt inclined to cry
as I said goodbye to them all, and had it not been for ill-health, I
think the idea of a journey to England would have been hateful to me.
It was during this voyage that the first great sorrow since my arrival
in Sarawak occurred. The three children we were taking home with us
died within six days of one another, and were buried in the Red Sea.