Part 10
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.
There are no local bards to record Slêman’s story in deathless song, and the people are so impregnated with vice that they seek for no excuses to palliate his conduct, and have no condemnation for this ruthless destroyer of Iskander’s happy home. But they are Muhammadans, and seldom allow themselves the luxury of burning moral convictions. I have never seen a missionary proselytising amongst the Malays, but many years ago I was told that a Christian missionary came to Malâya full of zeal and confident of success. He began with a man who seemed an earnest, truthful person, anxious to learn, a promising subject. The missionary told him the story of the Immaculate Conception. The Malay listened to the end, showing great interest in the miraculous narrative of the Blessed Virgin; then he said, “If that had happened to my wife, I should have killed her.”
XVII
MALAY SUPERSTITIONS
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy
_Hamlet_