they made this visit it was his desire to purchase a musical-box (in
the sweet strains of which his soul delighted) and a tricycle, the
beautiful three-wheeled silent carriage which cost little to start with
and nothing to keep, wanted no horses, nor harness, nor expensive and
impertinent horse-keepers, which never shied at bullock-carts or ran
away from elephants, and which lasted through the lives of many beasts.
Therefore, he, the priest, the obedient slave of the King, had sought the
sweet-voiced box and the stomachless carriage, and after much difficulty
he had found them. By the express order of the King the priest had bidden
the owners bring them to the house in which the King was lodging, and
there the whole details of the two transactions were arranged. The
people who trafficked in these goods could not be taken into the presence
of his master, and, indeed, the King had expressly declined to see them
(was not the King all-wise?), but they had been brought into a room of
the house across which hung a heavy curtain, and while he, the priest,
discussed the terms with the seller on one side, the King sat on the
other, and not only heard all that was said, but in the end, when the
priest went behind the curtain to consult his royal master, had expressed
his entire approval of the price, only stipulating that he should first
hear the box sing and ride the stomachless horse. This he had arranged
with some little difficulty, because the sellers were needy men and
wanted the money; moreover, they seemed to distrust his master, the King,
for some reason which he could not fathom. But he arranged that the
singing-box and the seat on three wheels should stay with his master for
four days, and that then they should be returned or paid for; those were
the orders of the King. So they stayed, and the King turned the handle of
the box and made it sing, or, more often, from prayer-time to prayer-time
he, the priest, had to turn the handle and make music, and the King drank
in the sound and was glad. As for the three wheels, they lay under the
house, and the King looked upon the machine and said it was good and
cheap and would eat nothing.
These are the words of the Priest: “The four days went by and the men
came to be paid, and I told my master, but he seemed to be busy with
other things, and I sent them away to come again the next day. In this
way the time passed till the day for our departure, and I knew the men
who owned the box and the carriage were angry, but I saw my master wanted
the things. When at last the trouble came, and the King said it was not
his business but mine, I told the men they could take the box and the
carriage back because they did not please the King, but they would not,
and I was afraid lest shame should come on my master, and I went out and
borrowed the money and paid it. Could I, who am a priest, play with a box
that sings not of God nor the Prophet? Can I, who am a poor man, who only
live to pray and to preach, to exhort the living and to bury the dead,
can I ride on the stomachless horse with three wheels, I whose duty is in
the mosque and by the grave? My master the King knows that in this thing
as in others I have but obeyed the voice of my master.”
So Church and State quarrelled, and the priest found no more favour in
the sight of the King. But there were many who said:
“_Sĕpĕrti Nasrûan dëngan Bahtek_
_Bĕr-sâtu rangkêsa_
_Bĕr-chĕrei jâdi sentôsa._”
“They are like Raja Nasrûan and his minister Bahtek; their union
brought ruin, their divorce solace.” Indeed, it was the opportunity of
the proverb-monger, and such sayings as, “It is sometimes one’s own
forefinger which pokes one in the eye,” and, “While you carry the Raja’s
business on your head, don’t forget to keep your own under your arm,”
were heard on all sides.
The King had a clerk who had served him faithfully for twenty years or
more. The clerk had a wife, and the King’s eye fell upon her approvingly;
so the King sent the clerk into a far country to chase a wild bird, and
bestowed his favour upon the wife who remained under his care. The King
also bestowed upon the lady sundry jewels of price, things that please
poor heathen women with hardly any moral character and no education to
speak of.
By-and-by the King got tired of the woman, as unprincipled Eastern kings
will do, and he sought about for some means, not to rid himself of her,
that was simple enough, but to get back his gifts (for they would serve
again as they had done already) and at the same time to throw a little
dust in the eyes of the clerk, who was known to be on his way back.
Accordingly, a youth of no account was arrested by the King’s people, and
charged with carrying on a _liaison_ with the lady during the absence of
her husband. The crime was, of course, aggravated by the fact that she
was under the special protection of the King! The clear proof of guilt
was the alleged possession by the woman of a _sârong_[3] belonging to the
man.
This charge was sufficient ground for the display of royal displeasure,
and procured the restitution of the jewels, but it failed to convince
anyone that the man accused by the King had done any wrong, and, in spite
of the strenuous exertions of His Highness to get the man banished from
the country, nothing was done to him. The plan, therefore, miscarried to
some extent, and when the clerk returned it is probable that he learnt
the facts, for he declined to further serve the King, and even said
bluntly things about his late master that were not altogether loyal.
I have elsewhere stated that Malays try to wipe out, what in their
uncivilised minds they count as dishonour, in a savage and bloodthirsty
fashion, but this does not apply when the offender is a raja and the
injured man of lesser rank. The person of a raja is sacred to a Malay,
and if he feels that he has been disgraced beyond bearing, the result
will probably be, sooner or later, an access of blind fury resulting in a
case of _âmok_.
The King had as many wives as the Muhammadan law permitted, and, as his
country possessed the infinite blessing of a civil list which limited
his own income, he was always anxious that whenever he took to himself
a new wife she should receive an allowance from the State. His Highness
made a special point of this grant to the ladies, because he said the
knowledge that if they divorced him or compelled him to divorce them they
would lose the allowance, had an excellent effect on their behaviour.
He had succeeded in securing allowances for several wives, when a new
lady, named Raja Sarefa, consented to share the royal smiles, and the
King immediately applied on her behalf for the usual civil list. The
application, however, was not successful, though several times renewed.
Then the King fell ill of some fell disease that no native medicine-man
could diagnose, and the evil spirit, with which he seemed to be
troubled, had its will of him, so that all men said the King must die.
During an interval of temporary return to consciousness, when for a
few hours the patient seemed to have a rest from the attacks of the
tormentor, he ordered that a young nephew should be sent for, also a
divorced wife of his own, and a priest. Then, against the earnest wishes
of both parties, he insisted upon these young people being married in his
presence, and shortly after relapsed into his former state.
After weeks of torment, when every day seemed certain to be his last, the
iron constitution prevailed, and the King recovered. In the first days of
his convalescence I went to see him, and found him lying on his bed, in
his eyes the light of consciousness and intelligence, and sitting by him
the wife, Raja Sarefa.
He was weak, spoke slowly and in a small voice, but said that by God’s
grace he only wanted time to regain his strength. After expressing my
thankfulness at seeing him so well on the way to recovery, I said that I
had often been over to see him when he was ill, and that the Raja Sarefa
had tended him with extraordinary devotion, never seeming to leave his
bedside. At once he said, “You noticed that, did you?” I replied that I
had been very much struck by her care of him. “I was blind,” he said; “I
do not know what happened, but I am very glad you remarked how carefully
Sarefa nursed me, and that you have mentioned it, for now you will
recognise that she ought to have an allowance.”
In the presence of the lady, even though she did not raise her eyes from
the floor, it was difficult not to recognise that, if curses come home to
roost, blessings sometimes go astray.
After a respite of eighteen months, the evil spirit again took possession
of the King, and this time made short work of him.
The scientific explanation, deriding the evil-spirit theory, said that a
tumour on the brain, caused by no matter what, accounted for the first
attack, and that as sometimes, but rarely, happens, the growth was for a
time arrested, the tumour contracted, and the pressure on the brain was
removed. But the mischief was there, and a sudden rapid development of
the disease brought on a return of the symptoms, a violent but hopeless
struggle, and death.
It is the custom in the country of which I now write to, in a manner,
canonise its Sultans. At the burial, when the moment arrives for
carrying the body to the place of sepulture, the dead man is given a new
name, by which he is ever afterwards known. That name is chosen with
some reference to his earthly life. Thus, there is Al-mĕrhum or Mĕrhum
Pâsir Panjang (that is, “The Sultan who died at Pâsir Panjang”), Mĕrhum
Kahar-Allah (“The late Sultan to whom God gave strength”), and so on.
When this King was buried, the name conferred upon him was Mĕrhum
Rafir-Allah, and the meaning is, “May God pardon him.”
* * * * *
NOTE.—Since writing the above, I have read the following in the _Home
News_:
“In the Lord Mayor’s Court on Oct. 14, before the Assistant
Judge and a jury, the case of ‘Fischer _v_. Brown’ was
concluded. This (says the _Times_) was an action brought by
Fischer and Co., a firm of Bombay merchants, to recover from
Messrs. Brown, Saville, and Co., who carry on business in
this country, the sum of £73, money paid by the plaintiffs to
the defendants, for which they had received no consideration.
It appeared that in July, 1892, the plaintiffs received an
order for a special perambulator, which was to be given to
His Highness Tikah Sahib, Rajah of Patalia, as a birthday
present by his secretary, Sham Shir Sing. The perambulator was
to be painted dark green and old gold, which were the colours
of the Rajah, and there was to be a good strong musical-box
under the seat, and also an automatic arrangement by which the
perambulator, on being wound up, would run by itself. This
order was given to the defendants by the plaintiffs on July 4,
and the perambulator was to be ready for shipment to Bombay
by Aug. 15, in order that it should reach the Rajah by Oct.
1, which was the date of his birthday. The defendants did not
finish the work in time, and the Rajah’s birthday had passed
before the present arrived, and then the secretary refused
to take it, and it had to be sent back. In the meantime the
defendants had drawn a bill upon the plaintiffs for the price
of the perambulator, and this the plaintiffs had accepted and
had paid the money, which they were now suing to recover.
For the defence it was stated that the cause of the delay in
delivering the perambulator was Mr. F. Fischer’s interference.
The wheels and springs of the perambulator, it had been agreed,
should be electro-plated, but when Mr. Fischer heard this he
said it would not suit the Rajah, and they must be gilded. He
was told this could not be done in time, and it was implied
by the orders he gave (which were that the perambulator should
have elephant-headed handles and papier-maché figures of
elephants and peacocks) that a further allowance of time would
be given. The jury found a verdict for the plaintiffs for the
amount claimed.”
XVI
A MALAY ROMANCE
Every heart in which heaven has set the lamp of love, whether
that heart inclines to Mosque or Synagogue, if its name be
written in the Book of Love it is freed from the fear of Hell,
and the hope of Paradise
JUSTIN MCCARTHY’S _Omar Khayyam_
A quarter of a century ago there lived on the bank of a broad river, just
at the point where stream meets tide, a Malay Raja and his youthful wife.
She has been dead for twenty years, but in this land of brief regrets her
memory is still green, the fame of her wit and beauty has become a byword
with the people.
She was a girl of royal descent; her name, Raja Maimûnah. Exceeding fair,
for a Malay, slight but graceful in figure, with very small hands and
feet, an oval face and splendid eyes, glistening blue-white wells in
which floated, lotus-like, the dark iris, flashing or wooing in changeful
expression from wide-open or half-closed lids deeply shaded by long
black lashes. Her nose was small, straight, and well cut, and the curved
smiling lips disclosed teeth of perfect shape and singular whiteness. In
either cheek a dimple, _lĕsong mâti_, as the Malays call it, the dimple
which so fascinates the beholder that it will lure him even unto death.
Her jet-black hair, fringing the forehead in an oval frame, was drawn
straight back over the well-shaped head and fastened in a simple knot
with four ruby-studded hairpins; the heads firmly fixed against one side
of the coil, while the golden points protruded for an inch or more beyond
the other.
Her dress was that worn by all ladies of rank, and usually consisted of a
silk skirt of softly-blended colours reaching to the ankles and fastened
at the waist by a belt with a large golden buckle. The only other
garment was a satin jacket of some dark colour on which were stitched
cunningly-wrought designs of beaten gold. This jacket had a tight collar,
and the close-fitting sleeves were fastened by a long row of jewelled
buttons reaching almost from wrist to elbow; it was loose at the waist
and just covered the belt. Tiny heelless shoes, embroidered with gold and
silver thread, completed the attire.
When out of doors, the Raja Maimûnah would wear a veil of darkest blue,
black or white gossamer embroidered with very narrow gold ribbon, a most
becoming head-dress, the product of Arabian skill. Over this, again, was
held coquettishly, to conceal the face from male eyes, a scarf of rich
Malay-red silk, heavy with interwoven threads of gold, while one or two
more silken _sârongs_ of varying colour and richness of material were
worn over the under-skirt.
Jewels depend upon the wealth and station of the wearer, but Maimûnah’s
jacket was fastened with buttons that matched the hairpins. She was
seldom seen without diamond solitaires in the ears and a number of
diamond rings on her fingers, while on State occasions she wore heavy
gold bangles on her wrists and one or more gold necklaces.
I cannot draw an equally attractive picture of Raja Iskander, the
husband of this lady. He was about thirty years of age, while she
was one-and-twenty. He was short and spare for a Malay, and his
distinguishing features were a large ugly mouth with a downward turn at
the corners and an almost perpetual expression of extreme discontent.
His vanity was inordinate, his extravagance continually led him into
difficulty, and he smoked opium to excess and to the neglect of all his
duties and his interests; moreover, he lacked courage, and sought counsel
from men of no standing, whose only thought was their own profit.
A Malay Raja has many wives. He begins early and rings the changes often,
until (especially if he have pretensions to become ultimately the ruler
of his country, as was the case with Iskander) his relatives decide that
he should marry a lady of his own rank. Then, if he is young, her people
usually insist that any wife he has must be divorced, and, that done, the
marriage takes place.
At the time of which I write, Raja Iskander had been married to Maimûnah
for about three years; she was the mother of two children, but her
husband thought he had good reason to doubt her fidelity, and he was
palpably neglecting her for a concubine. That he should have other wives
or concubines was of course only what she had been educated to expect,
and, in acting on his right, Raja Iskander was simply following the
practice of his ancestors and the custom of the country. The Muhammadan
law is nevertheless extremely strict in its injunctions that all wives
are to be treated with equal consideration, and, while their claims are
clear, the concubine has none. To neglect a wife for a concubine is a
dire offence to Malay women, and the slight is enormously exaggerated
when the wife is of high birth, and the favourite only a woman of the
people.
The house where Raja Iskander then lived was within a hundred feet of
the bank of the stream, an unattractive spot fifty miles from the mouth
of the river, but yet not far enough to escape the tidal influence and
the unlovely accompaniments of turbid water, muddy banks, and flat
surroundings. Raja Iskander passed a good deal of his time in boats, the
lazy life suited him and his habits, and, instead of having to provide a
house for each of the ladies in his harem, he supplied a boat. That was
much more economical, and economy was an object, for, like many people
with extravagant tastes, his extravagance was purely selfish.
The boats lay in the river in front of the house, and as Raja Iskander’s
presence was the excuse for a rendezvous of all the gamblers,
cock-fighters, and opium-smokers of the neighbourhood, a good many boats
besides his own were always in attendance.
Amongst the visitors attracted to this spot at this time was a man called
Raja Slêman, a stranger from a neighbouring State.
It might have been the cock-fighting or the gambling always to be found
in the society of Raja Iskander that drew Raja Slêman to the place. It
might also have been the congenial society of another opium-smoker, or
possibly the fame of Raja Maimûnah’s attractions. Whatever the lodestone,
Raja Slêman appeared with two boats and about fifteen followers, and,
once arrived, he elected to remain.
Raja Iskander passed most of his time on the water, but Maimûnah lived
in the house on shore. A very modest dwelling it was; a building of mat
sides and thatched roof raised from the damp and muddy earth on wooden
piles, a flight of steps led into the front of the house and a ladder
served for exit at the back. The interior accommodation consisted of a
closed-in verandah, one large room, and a kitchen tacked on behind.
The edges of the muddy river were fringed by the _nipah_ palm, which
is never seen beyond tidal influences; the banks were covered by rank
grasses, the country was flat and desolate, the jungle insignificant, and
in the heat of the day the oppression of steaming mud and shelterless
plain was so great that sleep seemed to force itself on insect, reptile,
and every living thing.
At night the myriads of fireflies sparkling in the riverside bushes,
their twinkling lights reflected in the water, gave some relief to tired
eyes; but the gain in the change of temperature and scene was hardly
appreciated when the mosquitoes and sand-flies began their merciless
attacks.
Under such circumstances and amidst such surroundings, Raja Slêman came
into the life of Maimûnah.
He was about the same age as Raja Iskander, but in other respects there
was a striking difference between the two men. Slêman was a man of
pleasing features, extremely quiet, and of courtly manners; the casual
observer would probably fail to realise that this outward appearance
concealed a firm determination and a dauntless courage. Of worldly goods
he had little enough, and small prospect of multiplying them, but in rank
he was almost, if not quite, the equal of Raja Iskander.
One day as Slêman sat in his boat he saw Maimûnah and her maidens come
down to the river to bathe. In his country he had never beheld a woman
as beautiful as this one, and he fell hopelessly in love with Iskander’s
wife. Then each day he watched for her, and never failed, morning and
evening, to follow her with his eyes for the few moments when she slowly
wended her way from house to river and back again.
Meanwhile, Maimûnah, suffering from the _spretæ injuria formæ_ and
chafing under the monotony of existence, had heard all about the arrival
of Slêman and readily listened to the tales of his valorous deeds. Soon
she began to look for him, and as he was ever watching for her coming it
was not long before their eyes met. He pleased her, and, when she saw
in his face the admiration he had no desire to conceal, she would drop
the covering that hid all but her eyes, and what he then beheld only
increased his passion.
Malay ladies are adepts in speaking the language of the eyes, the chances
of verbal speech are but few, and so carefully is this art cultivated,
so thoroughly understood, that principals and witnesses never fail to
rightly interpret the signs.
Slêman and Maimûnah had already mutually declared themselves without the
exchange of a syllable, and it was with perfect confidence that Slêman
sought a closer intimacy by the friendly aid of a messenger.
Iskander was too much engaged with his opium and his latest favourite,
too generally satisfied with himself, to notice what was going on. Had
he realised the state of affairs he would not have been indifferent to
the disgrace that must be his, should his wife’s _liaison_ become public
property. It is unlikely that he had any suspicion of Slêman, but, if he
had, it would never occur to him that any man would have the courage to
do more than carry on a clandestine intrigue, and of that he suspected
Maimûnah had already been guilty. Least of all would it seem possible
for a foreigner supported by a dozen followers to brave the power and
resentment of well nigh the greatest chief of a powerful State.
In this, however, he was misled by the _suave_ manners of the quiet
stranger.
Slêman’s suit prospered, and he was not satisfied to continue
indefinitely filling the _rôle_ of false friend to Iskander and fearful
lover to his wife. However much he despised the man, however easily he
found he could profit by Iskander’s indifference, he meant to play a
bolder game and make Maimûnah his own at all hazards if she were prepared
to face the risk.
Her courage was equal to his own (for failure meant probably death to her
as to him), and one night, while Iskander lay in his boat dreaming over
his opium-pipe, the stranger was carrying off his royal spouse within
earshot, almost from under his very eyes.
Once in Slêman’s boat, and the bark had been silently unmoored and
allowed to drift out of sight and hearing, little time was lost in
getting out the oars and pulling with might and main down river towards
the coast.
All night long the rowers bent to their work, but when morning broke and
less than half the distance to the river’s mouth had been traversed,
Slêman ordered the men to pull in to the bank, fasten up the boat and
rest.
It seemed a foolhardy proceeding to waste the precious time, for with the
dawn the elopement would be discovered and Iskander would be in pursuit
before the sun had cleared the tops of the jungle trees.
Raja Slêman’s quiet serenity was not disturbed by anticipations of
capture or fear of the outraged husband’s fury. On the contrary, he
procured a small boat and a messenger, and he indited a letter to Raja
Iskander, informing him he had carried away the Raja Maimûnah, but that
he had not gone far, having only reached the place he named. He added
that he would wait there for one night and one day against the coming of
any who might wish to try and take the lady from him, and that after that
time he should continue his journey to the coast and thence to his own
country.
Raja Iskander received this missive whilst yet undecided what course to
take in the untoward disaster that had befallen him. The letter did not
greatly help him to arrive at a decision, and he was still discussing
with his chiefs who should have the honour of pursuing and punishing the
abductor when the twenty-four hours expired.
Neither Iskander nor any of his people ever started on that quest, and
Raja Slêman carried Maimûnah in safety to his own country.
The disconsolate husband, whose ideas were in accord with a civilisation
beyond the education or sympathetic comprehension of his subjects,
decided to divorce his faithless wife and leave her lover to marriage
and the punishment of his own conscience. It is a painful fact that this
conduct earned him not the admiration but the contempt of his people.
Iskander had one revenge: he discovered amongst Maimûnah’s women two who
had carried messages between the lovers. One was a woman of twenty-five,
the other a girl of fourteen, and both were incontinently strangled.
As for Slêman and Maimûnah, they were duly married, and she bore him a
daughter in all respects like her mother, though not, the old people
say, her peer in beauty. The _laudator temporis acti_ is a common and
flourishing plant in Malâya.
In the two children born before the elopement, it is difficult to trace
any resemblance to their mother.
Maimûnah died years and years ago, the victim of a malignant disease;
but Slêman still lives in his own country, his hair is getting grey,
but otherwise he shows few signs of age. Time has only intensified
the courteous bearing and quiet repose of manner which seem to fitly
accompany his gentle winning voice; no one would suspect that this man,
almost single-handed, carried off the chief spouse of an Oriental prince,
and then defied the whole country to take her from him.