German piano is a mass of music in which the masterpieces of all countries have
equal rights with the national anthem of Johore.
Going directly through a mass of Oriental drapery, we are in the throne-room,
where are gathered the nobility of the little Sultanate.
Amid the crash of music and the booming of guns the Sultan took his seat in one
of the gilded chairs on the dais, with the English Governor on his left. Ranged
about the burnished walls of the great room, several files deep, were the nobility
of the kingdom, the ministers of state, and officers of the army and navy, the
space back of them being filled with Chinese mandarins and towkoys, and rich
native merchants in their picturesque costumes. In front of the nobility, standing
in the form of a square, were the sons of the datos each bearing golden, jewel-
studded chogans, spears, krises, and maces. Inside the square stood the fifteen
consuls. Back of the throne were four young princes, two bearing each the
golden bejewelled kris of the Malay, another the golden sword of state, and the
fourth the cimeter of the Prophet.
Up to the steps of the throne came the young prince, dressed in the uniform of a
lieutenant of artillery, with the royal order of Darjah Krabat ablaze with jewels
on his breast. He was slightly taller than his father, the Sultan, straight, graceful,
and handsome, with big, brown eyes and strongly marked features. He was
nervous and agitated, and his lips trembled as he bent on one knee and kissed his
Highness’s hand.
Above our heads in the gilded walls, behind a grated opening, were Inche
Kitega, the Sultan’s beautiful Circassian wife, and the women of the court. We
could see their black eyes as they peered curiously down. It was only when the
Dato Mentri, or Prime Minister, stood up and asked his people if they wished the
young Tunku to be their future lord that we could hear their shrill voices
mingling with the “Suku, suku” (“We wish it, we wish it”), of the men.
It is only the wives of the nobles that are secluded in the istana isaras, or women
palaces, according to Mohammedan law; the women of the poor are as free as
the more civilized countries of Europe. They bask in the sun with their brown
babies on their laps, or wander among the cocoanuts that always surround their
palm-thatched homes, happy and contented, with no thought for the morrow.
The trees furnish them their food, and a few hours before their looms of dark