Part 1

MALAY SKETCHES

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

UNADDRESSED LETTERS

_Crown 8vo, 6s. Third Edition_

“Deep gratitude is due to Sir Frank for giving these letters to the world ... the lazy descriptions of Eastern life, the musings on great scenes, the stories, and the utterances of social wisdom are all delightful, and add body to a book remarkable for a rare delicacy and charm.”—_The Athenæum._

“His narrative style is admirable, and his episodes are always interesting. One could read for many hours of the clever mongoose and tigers and crocodiles.... Sir Frank Swettenham has a pretty humour.... The style in which these ‘Unaddressed Letters’ is written is excellent.”— _The Pall Mall Gazette._

THE REAL MALAY

PEN PICTURES

_Crown, 8vo, 6s._

“No pen except that of Mr. Conrad has drawn the Malay character so faithfully or so graphically.... It is a combination that is very alluring, and we confess to finding Sir Frank Swettenham’s book of Malay sketches most fascinating reading.”—_The Pall Mall Gazette._

“Sir Frank Swettenham understands perhaps better than any other roving Englishman ‘The Real Malay.’”—_The Morning Post._

[Illustration]

MALAY SKETCHES

BY SIR FRANK ATHELSTANE SWETTENHAM

JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD LONDON AND NEW YORK MDCCCCIII

THIRD EDITION

Printed by BALLANTYNE HANSON & CO. London & Edinburgh

CONTENTS

PAGE

INTRODUCTION ix

I. THE REAL MALAY 1

II. THE TIGER 12

III. A FISHING PICNIC 19

IV. THE MURDER OF THE HAWKER 25

V. MĔNG-GĔLUNCHOR 31

VI. ÂMOK 38

VII. THE JÔGET 44

VIII. THE STORY OF MAT ARIS 53

IX. LÂTAH 64

X. THE ETERNAL FEMININE 83

XI. IN THE NOON OF NIGHT 92

XII. VAN HAGEN AND CAVALIERO 103

XIII. THE PASSING OF PĔNGLIMA PRANG SĔMAUN 112

XIV. BĔR-HANTU 147

XV. THE KING’S WAY 161

XVI. A MALAY ROMANCE 179

XVII. MALAY SUPERSTITIONS 192

XVIII. WITH A CASTING-NET 211

XIX. JAMES WHEELER WOODFORD BIRCH 227

XX. A PERSONAL INCIDENT 248

XXI. NAKODAH ORLONG 270

XXII. EVENING 281

PREFACE

This is not a book of travels, nor is it, in even the smallest sense, the record of a traveller’s experiences in a foreign land. It is a series of sketches of Malay scenery and Malay character drawn by one who has spent the best part of his life in the scenes and amongst the people described.

These pages contain no statistics, no history, no geography, no science, real or spurious, no politics, no moralising, no prophecy,—only an attempt to awaken an interest in an almost undescribed but deeply interesting people, the dwellers in one of the most beautiful and least known countries in the East.

The traveller will come in time, and he will publish his experiences of Malâya and the Malays; but while he may look upon the country with a higher appreciation and paint its features with a more artistic touch, he will see few of those characteristics of the people, none of that inner life which, I make bold to say, is here faithfully portrayed.

FRANK SWETTENHAM.

THE RESIDENCY, PERAK, _28 March 1895_.

“Quel est donc ce pays, disaient-ils l’un a l’autre, inconnu a tout le reste de la terre, et où toute la nature est d’une espèce si différente de la nôtre?”

VOLTAIRE

Imagine yourself transported to a land of eternal summer, to that Golden Peninsula, ’twixt Hindustan and Far Cathay, from whence the early navigators brought back such wondrous stories of adventure. A land where Nature is at her best and richest: where plants and animals, beasts of the forest, birds of the air, and every living thing seem yet inspired with a feverish desire for growth and reproduction, as though they were still in the dawn of Creation.

And Man?

Yes, he is here. Forgotten by the world, passed by in the race for civilisation, here he has remained amongst his own forests, by the banks of his well-loved streams, unseeking and unsought. Whence he came none know and few care, but this is the land that has given to, or taken from, him the name of a Race that has spread over a wider area than any other Eastern people.

Malâya, land of the pirate and the _âmok_, your secrets have been well guarded, but the enemy has at last passed your gate, and soon the irresistible Juggernaut of Progress will have penetrated to your remotest fastness, slain your beasts, cut down your forests, “civilised” your people, clothed them in strange garments, and stamped them with the seal of a higher morality.

That time of regeneration will come rapidly, but for the moment the Malay of the Peninsula is as he has been these hundreds of years. Education and contact with Western people must produce the inevitable result. Isolated native races whose numbers are few must disappear or conform to the views of a stronger will and a higher intelligence. The Malays of the Peninsula will not disappear, but they will change, and the process of “awakening” has in places already begun.

It might be rash to speculate on the gain which the future has in store for this people, but it is hardly likely to make them more personally interesting to the observer. This is the moment of transition, and these are sketches of the Malay as he is.

Jetons-nous dans cette petite barque, laissons-nous aller au courant: une rivière mène toujours à quelque en droit habité; si nous ne trouvons pas des choses agréables, nous trouverons du moins des choses nouvelles

“‘Allons,’ dit Candide, ‘recommandons-nous à la Providence’”

VOLTAIRE

MALAY SKETCHES

I

THE REAL MALAY

He was the mildest manner’d man That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat

BYRON, _Don Juan_

To begin to understand the Malay you must live in his country, speak his language, respect his faith, be interested in his interests, humour his prejudices, sympathise with and help him in trouble, and share his pleasures and possibly his risks. Only thus can you hope to win his confidence. Only through that confidence can you hope to understand the inner man, and this knowledge can therefore only come to those who have the opportunity and use it.

So far the means of studying Malays in their own country (where alone they are seen in their true character) have fallen to few Europeans, and a very small proportion of them have shown an inclination to get to the hearts of the people. There are a hundred thousand Malays in Perak and some more in other parts of the Peninsula; and the white man, whose interest in the race is strong enough, may not only win confidence but the devotion that is ready to give life itself in the cause of friendship. The Scripture says: “There is no greater thing than this,” and in the end of the nineteenth century that is a form of friendship all too rare. Fortunately this is a thing you cannot buy, but to gain it is worth some effort.

The real Malay is a short, thick-set, well-built man, with straight black hair, a dark brown complexion, thick nose and lips, and bright intelligent eyes. His disposition is generally kindly, his manners are polite and easy. Never cringing, he is reserved with strangers and suspicious, though he does not show it. He is courageous and trustworthy in the discharge of an undertaking; but he is extravagant, fond of borrowing money, and very slow in repaying it. He is a good talker, speaks in parables, quotes proverbs and wise saws, has a strong sense of humour, and is very fond of a good joke. He takes an interest in the affairs of his neighbours and is consequently a gossip. He is a Muhammadan and a fatalist, but he is also very superstitious. He never drinks intoxicants, he is rarely an opium-smoker. But he is fond of gambling, cock-fighting, and kindred sports. He is by nature a sportsman, catches and tames elephants, is a skilful fisherman, and thoroughly at home in a boat. Above all things, he is conservative to a degree, is proud and fond of his country and his people, venerates his ancient customs and traditions, fears his Rajas, and has a proper respect for constituted authority—while he looks askance on all innovations, and will resist their sudden introduction. But if he has time to examine them carefully, and they are not thrust upon him, he is willing to be convinced of their advantage. At the same time he is a good imitative learner, and, when he has energy and ambition enough for the task, makes a good mechanic. He is, however, lazy to a degree, is without method or order of any kind, knows no regularity even in the hours of his meals, and considers time as of no importance. His house is untidy, even dirty, but he bathes twice a day, and is very fond of personal adornment in the shape of smart clothes.

A Malay is intolerant of insult or slight; it is something that to him should be wiped out in blood. He will brood over a real or fancied stain on his honour until he is possessed by the desire for revenge. If he cannot wreak it on the offender, he will strike out at the first human being that comes in his way, male or female, old or young. It is this state of blind fury, this vision of blood, that produces the _âmok_. The Malay has often been called treacherous. I question whether he deserves the reproach more than other men. He is courteous and expects courtesy in return, and he understands only one method of avenging personal insults.

The spirit of the clan is also strong in him. He acknowledges the necessity of carrying out, even blindly, the orders of his hereditary chief, while he will protect his own relatives at all costs and make their quarrel his own.

The giving of gifts by Raja to subject, or subject to ruler, is a custom now falling into desuetude, but it still prevails on the occasion of the accession of a Raja, the appointment of high officers, a marriage, a circumcision, ear-piercing, or similar ceremony. As with other Eastern people, hospitality is to the Malay a sacred duty fulfilled by high and low, rich and poor alike.

Though the Malay is an Islam by profession, and would suffer crucifixion sooner than deny his faith, he is not a bigot; indeed, his tolerance compares favourably with that of the professing Christian, and, when he thinks of these matters at all, he believes that the absence of hypocrisy is the beginning of religion. He has a sublime faith in God, the immortality of the soul, a heaven of ecstatic earthly delights, and a hell of punishments, which every individual is so confident will not be his own portion that the idea of its existence presents no terrors.

Christian missionaries of all denominations have apparently abandoned the hope of his conversion.

In his youth, the Malay boy is often beautiful, a thing of wonderful eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows, with a far-away expression of sadness and solemnity, as though he had left some better place for a compulsory exile on earth.

Those eyes, which are extraordinarily large and clear, seem filled with a pained wonder at all they see here, and they give the impression of a constant effort to open ever wider and wider in search of something they never find. Unlike the child of Japan, this cherub never looks as if his nurse had forgotten to wipe his nose. He is treated with elaborate respect, sleeps when he wishes, and sits up till any hour of the night if he so desires, eats when he is hungry, has no toys, is never whipped, and hardly ever cries.

Until he is fifteen or sixteen, this atmosphere of a better world remains about him. He is often studious even, and duly learns to read the Korân in a language he does not understand.

Then, well then, from sixteen to twenty-five or later he is to be avoided. He takes his pleasure, sows his wild oats like youths of a higher civilisation, is extravagant, open-handed, gambles, gets into debt, runs away with his neighbour’s wife, and generally asserts himself. Then follows a period when he either adopts this path and pursues it, or, more commonly, he weans himself gradually from an indulgence that has not altogether realized his expectation, and if, under the advice of older men, he seeks and obtains a position of credit and usefulness in society from which he begins at last to earn some profit, he will, from the age of forty, probably develop into an intelligent man of miserly and rather grasping habits with some one little pet indulgence of no very expensive kind.

The Malay girl-child is not usually so attractive in appearance as the boy, and less consideration is shown to her. She runs wild till the time comes for investing her in a garment, that is to say when she is about five years old. From then, she is taught to help in the house and kitchen, to sew, to read and write, perhaps to work in the _padi_ field, but she is kept out of the way of all strange menkind. When fifteen or sixteen, she is often almost interesting; very shy, very fond of pretty clothes and ornaments, not uncommonly much fairer in complexion than the Malay man, with small hands and feet, a happy smiling face, good teeth, and wonderful eyes and eyebrows—the eyes of the little Malay boy. The Malay girl is proud of a wealth of straight, black hair, of a spotless olive complexion, of the arch of her brow—“like a one-day-old moon”—of the curl of her eyelashes, and of the dimples in cheek or chin.

Unmarried girls are taught to avoid all men except those nearly related to them. Until marriage, it is considered unmaidenly for them to raise their eyes or take any part or interest in their surroundings when men are present. This leads to an affectation of modesty which, however over-strained, deceives nobody.

After marriage, a woman gets a considerable amount of freedom which she naturally values. In Perak a man, who tries to shut his womenkind up and prevent their intercourse with others and a participation in the fêtes and pleasures of Malay society, is looked upon as a jealous, ill-conditioned person.

Malays are extremely particular about questions of rank and birth, especially when it comes to marriage, and _mésalliances_, as understood in the West, are with them very rare.

The general characteristics of Malay women, especially those of gentle birth, are powers of intelligent conversation, quickness in repartee, a strong sense of humour and an instant appreciation of the real meaning of those hidden sayings which are hardly ever absent from their conversation. They are fond of reading such literature as their language offers, and they use uncommon words and expressions, the meanings of which are hardly known to men. For the telling of secrets, they have several modes of speech not understanded of the people.

They are generally amiable in disposition, mildly—sometimes fiercely—jealous, often extravagant and, up to about the age of forty, evince an increasing fondness for jewellery and smart clothes. In these latter days they are developing a pretty taste for horses, carriages, and whatever conduces to luxury and display, though, in their houses, there are still a rugged simplicity and untidiness, absolutely devoid of all sense of order.

A Malay is allowed by law to have as many as four wives, to divorce them, and replace them. If he is well off and can afford so much luxury, he usually takes advantage of the power to marry more than one wife, to divorce and secure successors; but he seldom undertakes the responsibility of four wives at one time. The woman on her part can, and often does, obtain a divorce from her husband. Written conditions of marriage, “settlements” of a kind, are common with people in the upper classes, and the law provides for the custody of children, division of property, and so on. The ancient maiden lady is an unknown quantity, so is the Malay public woman; and, as there is no society bugbear, the people lead lives that are almost natural. There are no drunken husbands, no hobnail boots, and no screaming viragoes—because a word would get rid of them. All forms of madness, mania, and brain-softening are extremely rare.

The Malay has ideas on the subject of marriage, ideas born of his infinite experience. He has even soared into regions of matrimonial philosophy, and returned with such crumbs of lore as never fall to the poor monogamist.

I am not going to give away the secrets of the life behind the curtain; if I wished to do so I might trip over difficulties of expression; but in spite of the Malay’s reputation for bloodthirstiness, in spite of (or because of, whichever you please) the fact that he is impregnated with the doctrines of Islam, in spite of his sensitive honour and his proneness to revenge, and in spite of his desire to keep his own women (when young and attractive) away from the prying eyes of other men, he yet holds this uncommon faith, that if he has set his affections on a woman, and for any reason he is unable at once to make her his own, he cares not to how many others she allies herself provided she becomes his before time has robbed her of her physical attractions.

His reason is this. He says (certainly not to a stranger, rarely even to his Malay friends, but to himself) “if, after all this experience, she likes me best, I have no fear that she will wish to go further afield. All Malay girls marry before they are twenty, and the woman who has only known one husband, however attractive he may be, will come sooner or later to the conviction that life with another promises new and delightful experiences not found in the society of the first man to whom destiny and her relatives have chosen to unite her. Thus some fool persuades her that in his worship and passion she will find the World’s Desire, and it is only after perhaps a long and varied experience that she realizes that, having started for a voyage on the ocean, she finds herself seated at the bottom of a dry well.”

It is possible that thus she becomes acquainted with truth.

II

THE TIGER

Yon golden terror, barred with ebon stripes Low-crouching horror, with the cruel fangs Waiting in deathly stillness for thy spring

ANON.

Some idea of what Malays are in their own country may best be conveyed by taking the reader in imagination through some scenes of their daily life. The tiger, for instance, is seldom deliberately sought; if he kills a buffalo a spring gun is set to shoot him when he returns for his afternoon meal, but sometimes the tiger comes about a village, and it is necessary to get rid of so dangerous a visitor. Let me try and put the scene before you.

But how describe an Eastern dawn? Sight alone will give a true impression of its strange beauty. Out of darkness and stillness, the transition to light—intense brilliant light—and the sounds of awakened life, is rapid and complete, a short half hour or less turning night into tropical day. The first indication of dawn is a grey haze, then the clouds clothing the Western hills are shot with pale yellow and in a few minutes turn to gold, while Eastern ranges are still in darkness. The light spreads to the Western slopes, moves rapidly across the valleys, and suddenly the sun, a great ball of fire, appears above the Eastern hills. The fogs, which have risen from the rivers and marshes and covered the land, as with a pall, rise like smoke and disappear, and the whole face of nature is flooded with light, the valleys and slopes of the Eastern ranges being the last to feel the influence of the risen sun.

That grey half-light which precedes dawn is the signal for Malays to be stirring. The doors are opened, and, only half awake and shivering in the slight breeze made by the rising fog, they leave their houses and make for the nearest stream, there to bathe and fetch fresh water for the day’s use.

A woman dressed in the _sârong_, a plaid skirt of silk or cotton, and a jacket, walks rapidly to the river, carrying a long bamboo and some gourds, which, after her bath, she fills, and begins to walk home through the wealth of vegetation that clothes the whole face of the country. She follows a narrow path up from the bed of the clear stream, the jungle trees and orchards, the long rank grasses and tangled creepers almost hiding the path. Suddenly she stops spellbound, her knees give way under her, the vessels drop from her nerveless hands, and a speechless fear turns her blood to water; for there, in front of her, is a great black and yellow head with cruel yellow eyes, and a half-open mouth showing a red tongue and long white teeth. The shoulders and fore feet of the tiger stand clear of the thick foliage, and a hoarse low roar of surprise and anger comes from the open mouth. An exceeding great fear chains the terrified woman to the spot, and the tiger, thus faced, sulkily and with more hoarse grumbling, slowly draws back into the jungle and disappears. Then the instinct of self-preservation returns to the woman, and, with knees still weak and a cold hand on her heart, she stumbles, with what speed she may, back to the river, down the bank, and to the friendly shelter of the nearest dwelling.

It takes little time to tell the story, and the men of the house, armed with spears and _krises_ and an old rusty gun, quickly spread the news throughout the _kampong_, as each cluster of huts and orchards is called. Every one arms himself with such weapons as he possesses, the boys of sixteen or seventeen climb into trees, from which they hope to see and be able to report the movements of the beast. The men, marshalled by the _ka-tua kampong_, the village chief, make their plans for surrounding the spot where the tiger was seen, and word is sent by messenger to the nearest police-station and European officer.

Whilst all this is taking place, the tiger, probably conscious that too many people are about, leaves his lair and stealthily creeps along a path which will lead him far from habitations. But, as he does so, he passes under a tree where sits one of the young watchmen, and the boy, seizing his opportunity, drops a heavy spear on the tiger as he passes, and gives him a serious wound. The beast, with a roar of pain, leaps into the jungle, carrying the spear with him; and, after what he considers a safe interval, the boy climbs down, gets back to the circle of watchers, and reports what has occurred.

For a long time, there is silence, no one caring to go in and seek a wounded tiger—but this monotony is broken rudely and suddenly by a shot on the outskirts of the wide surrounding ring of beaters where a young Malay has been keeping guard over a jungle track. Instantly the nearest rush to the spot only to find the boy badly wounded, after firing a shot that struck the tiger but did not prevent him reaching and pulling down the youth who fired it.