CHAPTER XVIII

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.

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.

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.

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.