A few months after Miss North’s departure, my second son Bertram was
born. His arrival gave pleasure to the people of the country, for they
think a great deal of a Rajah’s son who is born on their soil. It may
be on this account they look upon him as their particular property.
My Malay friends poured into my room as he lay in his cradle, and
made various remarks as to his future: “A Sarawak boy,” “A son of our
Rajah,” “He will be great some day,” “Look at his nose,” and they
tenderly took this feature between their thumb and forefinger (even in
those days Bertram’s nose was rather prominent), and then felt their
own flat noses. The many toys and jingling ornaments that hung over his
cradle made a forest of glittering things above his head and caused
him much enjoyment. He is called “Tuan Muda” (young lord), a title
given in Sarawak to the second brother in succession to the Raj. Malay
children were brought to play with him, and his arrival strengthened
even more the bonds of friendship already existing between the people
and the Rajah’s family. “How good it will be, Rajah Ranee,” Daiang
Sahada would say, “when he grows up and marries and has children, and
you and I will be here to take care of him and his family. It will make
Sarawak still more beautiful than it is now, for it will ensure our
future happiness.” It is sad to think that nearly everything we most
look forward to in life does not come to pass, and instead of my now
being with my sons, their wives, and their children, happily settled
in Sarawak amongst the best friends we have in the world, I should be
writing this book and wasting my life here in this city called London.
Bertram’s arrival on the scene prevented me from taking as many
expeditions with the Rajah as before. I now spent months together in
Kuching, and day by day added to my knowledge of the people, of their
beliefs and their aspirations, and made me love them more than ever.
It was during this period the idea came to me that it was a pity
Malay women could not read or write their own language. They were
fond of ancient lore and enjoyed hearing the legends and romantic
tales relating to their race, handed down to them through traditional
sources. In all the suburbs of Kuching curious old women were to be
found, many of whom had acquired in some mysterious manner these tales
from those of past generations. Such old women were called reciters,
and Malay ladies when giving parties often hired their services to
entertain their friends. Having learnt of this amusement, I started
parties of recitation at the Astana, which generally took place in
the evening. Clad in our best silks and satins, and stiff with gold
brocade, we sat together in my private room with the reciter, poorly
dressed in dark cotton clothes, pouring out wonderful stories of kings,
queens, and princesses; of royal gardens, monkey-gods, peacocks,
flowers, perfumes, and such-like things. I could not follow these
stories very well, because these old ladies sang every word. Sometimes
the voice was low, sometimes very shrill, and when embarrassed for a
word, they trilled and quavered, remaining on a very high note until
they remembered how the story went, when they gleefully descended
the scale, began again, and poured forth further torrents of words.
Sometimes they paused, walked rapidly across the room, and spat through
the window. “She is full of understanding,” Datu Isa would say after
one of these journeys to the window. “She knows her work!” “Her words
come from ancient times!” “It is beautiful exceedingly!” Meanwhile, the
reciter, holding her draperies firmly round her, left the window, and
bending double as she passed us as a sign of respect, took her place
once more in the centre of her admiring circle and began afresh, until
stopped again in the same way, when the same ejaculations of admiration
came from us all.
[Illustration: DAIANG SAHADA, DAIANG LEHUT, MRS. MAXWELL, THE AUTHOR
AND ATTENDANTS]
After one of these evening parties, as Datu Isa and her satellites
were sitting talking to me in my room, I suggested that we should all
learn to read and write Malay, which language is written in Arabic
characters. I asked Datu Isa how we had best set to work, for I
thought it would be good for the Malay women and myself to be able to
read and write Malay for ourselves. “No,” said Datu Isa; “that would
never do. Writing amongst women is a bad habit, a pernicious custom.
Malay girls would be writing love letters to clandestine lovers, and
undesirable men might come into contact with the daughters of our
house. I do not agree, Rajah Ranee, with the idea, and I hope it
will never come to pass.” This was rather crushing, because Datu Isa
was a tremendous force in our social life in Kuching, but I was not
altogether dismayed, and being anxious for this additional pleasure to
come into my friends’ lives, I pondered on the subject.
A good many months went by before I could put my suggestion into
execution. Meanwhile I began to study on my own account, and sent for
Inchi Sawal, a celebrity in the Kuching circles of those days. He was
called a “Guru” (master of arts). He knew Arabic, was a good Malay
scholar, and had taught a great many of the Rajah’s officers in the
intricacies of the language. Formerly he had been Malay writer to the
late Rajah. Malay is easy enough to talk ungrammatically, and one can
make oneself understood by stringing together nouns and adjectives,
regardless of verbs, prepositions, etc. The natives of Sarawak,
although learning the language by ear, speak very good Malay, but
it was deplorable, in those days, to hear it spoken by some of the
English people residing in Kuching. The Rajah, however, is one of the
best Malay scholars in Malaya, and it is a real pleasure to hear his
Malay speeches to his people.
Inchi Sawal was a great stickler for grammar. He was a Sumatran
Malay, and his face was rounder, his features rather thicker and his
complexion darker than our Malays; moreover, his hair was curly, and
his whole appearance was cheerful, genial, and kindly. His functions
were numerous. He was, of course, a Muhammadan, and had friendly
relations with all the Malay chiefs of Kuching, by whom he was looked
upon as a cultured man: in fact, they considered him the arbiter
of Malay literature. He was a butcher, and knew exactly what was
required in the killing of bullocks for Muhammadan consumption. He was
a wonderful confectioner, and made delicious preserves with little
half-ripe oranges growing in orchards round Malay houses in the town.
He sent me some of this preserve as a present for New Year’s Day, and
as I liked it so much, I wanted to know how it was made. Accordingly,
Inchi Sawal came to the Astana to give me a lesson. It would take too
long to tell of the methods he employed in the preparation of the
fruit, but it seemed to me that a good deal of religion was mixed up
with the cooking of those small, bobbing green balls, as they simmered
in the boiling syrup. A number of invocations to Allah secured a good
result to his labours. Inchi Sawal had a different appearance during
each of his occupations. When cooking oranges, a grave, religious
aspect seemed _de rigueur_ as he leant over the pot. When talking of
bullocks, his victims, a devil-me-care expression spread over his
countenance, as though in the slaughter of each beast he had to wrestle
with a sanguinary foe. At lessons he became urbane, courtier-like, and
mild.
When his teachings began, Inchi Sawal brought with him pens made from
the mid-ribs of palm leaves, used by most Arabic scholars in Malaya.
I am afraid I did not prove a very apt pupil. My tutor pronounced a
word, which I said after him. I found great difficulty in giving an
adequate sound to the Arabic letter غ (_aing_), awkward for Europeans
to pronounce. I read Malay in these characters with him, and it annoyed
him very much whenever I let a vowel pass without pronouncing it
properly. “The beauty of reading,” he would say, “is to look at a word
well before you give vent to its sound. Think over the letters, Tuan,
and although it should take a year to master one word, when you have
mastered it, it will give your heart relief and comfort.”
One morning Inchi Sawal was more solemn than usual. “I have spoken to
the Datu Imaum about our lessons,” he said, as he came into the room,
“and he quite agrees that we should together study the Koran. I will
bring the book wrapped in many cloths, and, if you do not object, we
will wash our hands before we handle its leaves. We might do a little
of the Koran before we begin our Malay lessons, which will put us in
the proper frame of mind for the things we have to learn. The Datu
Imaum also approves of your learning to read and write, as he thinks it
will be a great incentive to the Malay women to improve their minds and
strengthen their hearts.”
Very gravely he unfolded the wrappings in which the Koran lay, and
reverently handled the pages of this marvellous book of wisdom, as we
read together the first chapter:--
“Praise be to God, the Lord of all creatures; the most merciful, the
king of the day of judgment. Thee do we worship, and of thee do we beg
assistance. Direct us in the right way, in the way of those to whom
thou hast been gracious; not of those against whom thou art incensed,
nor of those who have gone astray....”
As time went on and Datu Isa found I could read and write Malay, she
relented so far as to allow her married daughters and daughters-in-law
to join me in my studies. We had great fun over our lessons, and, after
some time, Daiang Sahada (Datu Isa’s daughter-in-law) began to write
almost better than the great Inchi Sawal himself. She commenced to
describe the history of Sarawak, from the advent of the first white
Rajah, in poetry, and played a prominent part in the education of her
sisters. In her comfortable house, she and her husband, Abang Kasim
(now the Datu Bandar), helped me in my efforts by instituting a school
for women and young boys. In a short time the pupils were too numerous
for the size of her house, and the Rajah, being interested in this new
impetus given to education by the women of Kuching, built a school
where Malay reading and writing were taught, and installed Inchi Sawal
as master.[9]
One must mention that even in those days the Mission schools,
organized by the Protestant Bishops of Sarawak, their chaplains, and
missionaries, had attained considerable proportions, and were doing
immense good amongst the Rajah’s Chinese and Dyak subjects, but for
very good reasons the Muhammadans were never approached by Christian
teachers. As the country developed, the Muhammadans (Malays) also
longed for educational facilities on their own lines, so the Rajah
instituted a school where Arabic was taught.
Writing of these educational matters recalls many happy hours I spent
in Inchi Sawal’s company. I regret to say that some years ago he was
gathered to his fathers, and buried in the little Muhammadan cemetery
I know so well. I can fancy his weeping women wrapping him in a sheet,
according to the Muhammadan custom. I can also picture the little
procession of boats, accompanying the canoe in which his body was
placed covered with a white umbrella, paddling to the shores of his
last resting-place, where his grave had been dug by members of the
Faith--that shallow grave about three feet deep, allotted to followers
of the Faithful, from whence, at the resurrection, at the bidding of
the Angel Azraïl, together with other good Muhammadans, Inchi Sawal
shall rise up and be folded in the bosom of Allah--the Merciful, the
Compassionate.
[Illustration: VERANDA IN DAIANG SAHADA’S HOUSE AT KUCHING]
Another Malay school, on the opposite side of the river, was founded
by Inchi Bakar, the son of old Inchi Buyong, also a Sumatran Malay.
Inchi Bakar succeeded his father as Court Interpreter, and was also the
Head of the Customs. He and his family are great friends of mine, and
I often paid them visits. He is, perhaps, more a man of the world than
was Inchi Sawal. The profession of butcher fell into other hands, nor
do I think that Inchi Bakar is an adept at cooking the little oranges
of which I was so fond. He is, however, a great light in his way, and
his house is a meeting-place for the more educated Malays of Kuching.
Whilst retaining his Arabic culture, one can talk to him almost on any
subject, for he reads and writes English as well as most Englishmen.
He was partial to Chinese society, for amongst the Chinese merchants
of Kuching are to be found enlightened and cultured gentlemen. Many a
time I have sat on the broad and comfortable verandah of Inchi Bakar’s
house and witnessed Chinese plays enacted on narrow wooden tables, with
their feast of colour, curious costumes, Chinese music, and clashing
of cymbals. Although the stage was narrow and there was no scenery
beyond curtains of scarlet and gold, on which were embroidered rampant
dragons, we could understand the intricacies of the drama better,
perhaps, from the fact that so much was left to our imagination.
Chinese players often came to Sarawak, and are now permanently
established in the Chinese Bazaar, but as it is not customary for Malay
women to mingle with a crowd, private parties, at which these dramas
were acted for their benefit, were frequent amongst the aristocrats in
Kuching.
I am happy to say that Inchi Bakar is still living, and I often
hear from him. Although he and I may be parted, sometimes for years
together, the friendship that exists between us is as strong as it
was in the early days of our acquaintance, when he was a young lad
visiting me at the Astana with his mother and grandmother. Malays are
faithful friends, nor does absence blunt their friendship. I derive
great consolation from that fact, when, as often happens, a sort of
home-sickness comes over me, and I feel as though I must take the next
ship back to the land I love so well, never, never to leave it again.
In those days Inchi Bakar’s wife was also included in our educational
group. She was a relation of Datu Isa, and she and Daiang Sahada were
friends. I should like to draw special attention to the part played by
these two Malay ladies in the education of the women in Kuching, who
were much impressed by their kind interest and sympathy. Those were
pleasant days for us all, groping about the letters of the Arabic
alphabet, and trying to obtain calligraphic perfection. After what we
considered our hours of hard work, we thought recreation was necessary,
so that on most days, as it got cooler and the sun began to sink behind
Matang, we would go into the Astana garden in order to “eat the air,”
as they said. Those walks in our garden were a great delight to them.
They loved the roses, the jasmine, the honeysuckle, the tuberoses,
and many other tropical plants which grew in beds on the closely mown
lawns round our house. They often asked permission to take some of
the flowers home, and their methods of picking the flowers were so
refined, gentle, and economical, that they might pick as many as they
liked without any devastation being noticeable in the beds after their
passage. Malays never pick flowers with their stems; they only take
the heads of flowers which they set floating in saucers filled with
water. They used to ask me why we ordered our gardeners to break off
great branches of blossoms to put in water in our drawing-room. “They
are so high up,” they would say, “their perfume can never be thoroughly
enjoyed. Besides it destroys the plant.” So that in my rooms I always
had great basins full of sweet-smelling stemless flowers floating on
the surface of the water to please my friends. If only we could free
ourselves from the conventional ideas, we must realize it is entirely
erroneous to imagine that in order to make a room beautiful we must
decorate it with long stems of flowers and buds. I think Malays have
much better taste in such matters, because flowers smell quite as sweet
and last just as long under the methods they employ of perfuming their
houses.
[Illustration: DAIANG LEHUT--DAIANG SAHADA’S DAUGHTER]
Our evening strolls through the Astana grounds reminded my friends of
the legends related by the old lady reciters. “Here we are,” they often
exclaimed, “in the Rajah’s gardens, playing, smelling sweet perfumes,
and looking at ponds over which floats the lotus--just like the old
stories.” Beyond the miles and miles of forest land stretching to the
north between Kuching and the sea, the mountain of Santubong could be
seen from our garden towering on the horizon. Viewed from Kuching, the
outline of the mountain as it lies against the sky, has the appearance
of a human profile, bearing an extraordinary resemblance to the first
white Rajah of Sarawak. The Malays are aware of this fact, and the
women have frequently said to me as we stood looking at the mountain,
“The gods knew what they were about, they fashioned Santubong so that
the image of the first white Rajah should never fade from the country.”
Another source of joy on these occasions was the presence of a peahen
we kept roaming about at liberty in our garden. The naked feet of the
women pattering up and down the paths was, for some mysterious reason,
more than the bird could stand. The appearance of my Malay friends
was the signal for it to single from out the group one unfortunate
member, when it would rush at her toes and follow her in and out the
bushes on the lawn. The victim, half-amused and half-frightened at the
pecks, would move quicker than is customary amongst Malay aristocrats.
Sometimes the bird got so violent in its attacks, that I had to call
the sentry on guard at the door of the Astana. The sentry (either a
Malay or a Dyak), in his white uniform with black facings, musket in
hand, appeared very courageously at first to protect the woman from
her feathered persecutor, until the peahen turned her attention to his
toes, whereupon his musket was dropped, and the little figure of the
sentry rushing hither and thither in his frantic attempts to escape
from the bird caused us much merriment. This was a frequent occurrence,
and my Malay friends called it “playing with the peahen”! I was glad I
wore shoes, for I do not think I should have enjoyed the bird’s antics
quite so much as they did.
Sometimes the party stayed until 6 p.m., when, on fine evenings, more
punctual than any clock, we heard a shrill trumpeting noise issuing
from the woods near the Astana. I believe this came from a kind of
cricket. “It is the six o’clock fly telling us to go home,” they said,
and, at the first sound of this musical alarum, my friends bade me
good-night, stepped into their boats, and were paddled to their homes.
I often watched them as they went away in their covered boats, the
paddles churning up the golden or flame-coloured waters of the river
tinted by the sunset, and thought how absurd it is that different
coloured skins should be a bar to friendship between white and dark
people, seeing that kindness and sympathy are not confined to any
region of the earth, or to any race of men.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] This school became known as Abang Kasim’s school, and
now has a large attendance.