CHAPTER XII
EAST AND WEST
The first and principal sight in Rangoon is the great Shwe Dagon Pagoda, and on Sunday afternoon Shafto and his new acquaintance passed between the golden lions at its base, and slowly ascended flight after flight of steep brick steps, lined with flower-decked shrines and blocked by dense masses of worshippers, who were swarming up and down.
The temple stands in imposing majesty on a wide platform and dominates the town—in fact, apart from the trade and business element, the Pagoda is Rangoon. The splendid edifice is entirely encased in plates of solid gold, and the “Ti,” which rises from the inverted begging-bowl, is studded with priceless precious stones—emeralds, rubies, sapphires and diamonds—which flash and glitter in the sun. These have been presented by pious pilgrims from all parts of the province and beyond; for, with the exception of the Caaba at Mecca, no earthly shrine attracts such multitudes, or receives such generous largesse.
Shafto and his companion having toiled up the steps, worn hollow by millions of feet, halted on the plateau, which was half-covered with little stalls, whose keepers were selling flowers, candles, flags, dolls, and images of Buddha—made in Birmingham. Here were hundreds, nay thousands of joyous gaily-clad worshippers moving to and fro, a truly brilliant pageant of passing life. It was difficult to say which were the more strikingly dressed: the men in brilliant turbans and silk waist cloths, or the women in satin skirts of endless pattern, their chignons wreathed with flowers, wearing a profusion of gold ornaments, and attended by many children.
“Ah, I see you are struck with the spectacle!” said Salter. “Isn’t it an orgy of colour—rose, orange, purple, scarlet? There is nothing more picturesque than a Burmese crowd.”
“Yes, a great show!” rejoined Shafto; “in gala costume. I can now understand why the national emblem is a peacock.”
As they made their way through the throng there was a clanging of melodious gongs and sounds of loud continuous chanting, whilst overhead the far-away sea breeze stirred the bells on the Ti to a silvery tinkle, tinkle.
To Shafto this scene was amazing and impressive; the wonderful golden Pagoda with its crown of jewels, the vast multitudes in many-hued garments, the flowers, fluttering flags, coloured lights, all as it were attuned to the accompaniment of merry voices, sonorous Gregorian chanting, and deep-toned gongs.
And what a labyrinth of shrines! Hours might be spent examining their rich carvings. At one of the principal of these shrines a service was proceeding; to Shafto, it recalled the celebration of mass in a Roman Catholic chapel, for here were shaven priests intoning prayers on the steps of a decorated altar; here also were incense, lights, and a multitude of devout people, kneeling, rosary in hand, chanting the responses.
Among the worshippers Shafto recognised Mee Lay and her cousin Ma Chit, attired in what, no doubt, were their festival toilets. Mee Lay’s white jacket was fastened by diamond buttons, and large diamonds sparkled in her little brown ears; as for Ma Chit, she was adorned with the national gold necklace, or dalizan. In her sleek, black hair were artfully arranged sprigs of scarlet hibiscus, and between her tiny hands, glittering with rings, and uplifted palm to palm, she held a beautiful flower, which, when her devotions were accomplished, she laid upon the shrine with an undulating movement of adoration and grace.
“You see my wife follows her own religion,” remarked Salter, “and I make no objection. I was brought up as a Baptist, in the very strictest sense of the word. Rosetta, as you already know, is a Roman Catholic; sometimes Mee Lay brings her here; the service and the spectacle are attractive enough, though never so to me. My Nonconformist blood leaves me cold to this sort of display. Mee Lay is a good, religious woman; when you come to think of it, the East is far more devout than the West. She insists that our faith is a mere feeble copy of Buddhism, which had six hundreds years the start of Christianity. There is no doubt that the Buddhists preach most of the moral truths that are to be found in the Gospels, and Buddha was a Deliverer, who taught the necessity of a pure life, of self-denial and unworldliness. He exhorted his disciples to practise every virtue. But here is the difference between Buddhism and Christianity: Buddha brings a man by a thorny path to the brink of a huge, black chasm, and drops him into annihilation.”
“It seems unsatisfying,” said Shafto. “Yet, by all accounts, Buddhism is a wonderful religion. I heard a fellow on board ship discussing its code and the extraordinary way in which it has fastened on mankind, and spread. He declared that every fourth human being who came into the world was a Buddhist!”
“So they say,” replied Salter with a careless shrug. “I doubt if the assertion would hold water. At the same time Buddha has an enormous number of followers in China, Tibet, India, and Ceylon; they, too, have traditions of a Holy Mother and Child, of a fast in the wilderness, and here, even now, crucifixion is the form of capital punishment.”
“And what do you think about Buddhism in Burma?” inquired Shafto.
“Buddhism will hold its ground, in spite of many converts among the Karens. The Burmans are a sunny, happy people, as you see, who hope for a good time here, and a good time in the worlds to come. They held the same expectations and creed, and wore the same clothes, two thousand years ago; time does not appear to touch them; they are as gay and irresponsible as so many butterflies. You know Kipling’s lines to Rangoon?”
Before Shafto could reply, Salter quoted in a sonorous monotone:
‘Hail, Mother! Do they call me rich in trade?
Little care I, but hear the shorn priest drone,
And watch my silk-clad lovers, man by maid,
Laugh ’neath my Shwe Dagon.’
“From the ‘Song of the Cities.’ Rather appropriate to the occasion, eh?”
“Yes, fits it to a T,” assented Shafto, as his eye wandered over the vast assemblage on the plateau, talking, joking, laughing, smoking, absolutely content with the day, without a thought for the morrow.
The atmosphere felt heavy with the scent of incense, flowers, and cheroots; little bells still tinkled gaily and the air was full of silver music.
“Now I should like to show you the reverse of this scene,” said Salter; “it won’t take you long,” and he led his companion away to a solitary, deserted place at the rear of the Pagoda.
“Here,” he said, indicating some dilapidated moss-grown stones, “are a number of totally-forgotten English graves. There was desperate fighting all round this very plateau when we first came to this country, some seventy odd years ago; these dead, forgotten pioneer fellows struck a stout blow for the British flag. British and German trade, thanks to them, have flourished like a green bay tree; ships and railways carry all before them, and the days of the caravan are numbered. Well, now we shall move on to the Royal lakes and Dalhousie Park, and see all we can, for, after to-day, you won’t have much spare time for doing the tourist—you will be a cog in the machine.”
The scene presented by the Royal lakes proved an uncompromising contrast to that at the Pagoda; save for the Eastern background of palms and bamboos the gathering might have been in London. Here were motor-cars, smart carriages, pretty women wearing the latest fashions, men in flannels and tweeds; there was but little colour in their clothes—or their complexions—no brilliant orange or flaming scarlet, no bells, gongs, buoyant vitality, or merry laughter; the community were languidly discussing the mail news, the latest bridge tournament, and the approaching race meeting. By the lakes you encountered Europe—more particularly Great Britain. At the Shwe Dagon you found yourself in touch with an older world and face to face with the silken East!