——
The distance by rail from Rangoon to Mandalay is 386 miles, and it takes twenty-two hours to accomplish the journey. Trains, like everything else in this leisurely country, are not given to hurrying themselves. "Hasti, hasti, always go hasti" is the motto for Burmah. As an example of the unintelligible nature of the language I may explain that "Hasti" means "slow!"
It is a pleasant journey however, for the carriages are most comfortable, and the scenery through which the rail passes affords plenty of interest to a new comer.
I enjoyed my journey, therefore, immensely. I left Rangoon about five o'clock in the afternoon, well provided with books, fruit and chocolates for the journey, and under the protection of a hideous Madrassee Ayah.
I believe she was in reality a worthy old creature, but she was so exceedingly ugly, so very unintelligible (though most persistent in her efforts at conversation) and so intolerably stupid, that I could not feel much affection for her, and I only consented to put up with her company as a protection against the thieves who haunt the various halting places along the line, ready to steal into carriages and carry away all the portable property of the traveller. I had heard such blood curdling stories of these train thieves that I should have felt quite nervous about undertaking the journey, had I not fortunately disbelieved them.
I do not for an instant believe my ayah would have been any real protection, for whenever we stopped she was seized with an overpowering hunger, and spent all her time bargaining with the vendors of bananas, huge red prawns, decayed fish, dried fruits, cakes, and other horrible articles, who swarmed upon the stations.
These delicacies, and others which she prevailed upon my tender heart to buy for her, she wrapped up in a large red pocket handkerchief, and hid under the seat; what was their final fate I cannot pretend to say, but for her sake I trust she didn't eat them.
She was a much travelled lady and had visited many of the towns along the route, and persisted in waking me up at all odd hours of the night, to point out the houses where her various Mem-Sahibs had lived, or the bungalows inhabited by the commissioners, matters in which I was not at all interested.
She kept me awake with long rambling stories about her many relations, stories which, as they were told in the most vague and unintelligible "pigeon English" I found it very difficult to understand, but the gist of all was that she was very old and very poor, and she was sure I was a very kind and generous "Missie," and would not fail to reward her handsomely for her services.
I failed to discover what these same services might be, for beyond fanning me vigorously when I did not require it, and at three o'clock in the morning procuring me from somewhere an unpleasant mixture she called coffee, and which I was obliged to throw secretly out of the window, she did nothing except talk. I suppose she was really no worse than the rest of her tribe, and cannot be blamed for getting as much as she could out of her exceedingly innocent and easily humbugged "missie."
At the first station at which we stopped, I was much astonished to see all the natives on the platform come and kneel down in the humblest manner round the door of my carriage, and remain there "shekkohing" and pouring forth polite speeches in Burmese, until our train left the station.
I have never been backward in my high opinion of my own importance, but I hardly expected the fame of my presence to have spread to this distant land, and felt considerably embarrassed, though, of course, highly gratified, by such unexpected tokens of respect.
I received these attentions at every station with the most royal bows and smiles, until at last, on dismounting from the train at the dining station, I discovered that the carriage next to mine was occupied by a noble Shan Chief and his retinue, and it was to him, not to my insignificant person, that all this homage was paid. I felt quite annoyed at the discovery. He was really such a hideous, yellow, dirty old man, and he sat at the window, surrounded by his wives and attendants, smoking grumpily, and paying not the least attention to the flattering speech of his admirers, who must have been far more gratified by my gracious condescension.
The chief stared at me a great deal when I passed his window to re-enter my carriage, and shortly after the train was again set in motion he sent one of his wives to inspect me, possibly with a view to offering me a position among the number of his dusky spouses. She opened the door, and stared at me for some time, taking not the slightest notice of my requests that she would withdraw, until she had sufficiently examined me, when she retired as abruptly as she had appeared, and I lost no time in securing the door behind her.
Evidently her report was not satisfactory, for I have heard no more of the episode. Possibly, she reported that I looked bad tempered; I certainly felt so!
What a fascinating journey that was. During the first part of the route the country is less interesting, consisting merely of flat stretches of Paddy fields and low jungle scrub. But all this I passed through by night, when the soft moonlight lent a witching beauty to the scene.
There is something so inexplicably beautiful about night in the east, so comparatively cool, so clear, so quiet, and yet so full of mysterious sound,
The cloudless heavens sparkle with a myriad stars, the moonlight seems brighter and more golden than elsewhere, and the noisy, weary, worn old earth hides away her tinsel shams and gaudiness, which the cruel sunlight so pitilessly exposes, and appears grander and nobler under night's kindly sway.
The scenery in Upper Burmah is exceedingly fine. The great rocky hills, each crowned with its pagoda, rise on all sides, stretching away into the distance till they become only blue shadows. Everywhere are groves of bananas and palm trees, forests of teak and bamboo, and vast tracks of jungle, attired in the gayest colours.
The pagodas, mostly in a half-ruined condition, are far more numerous here than in Lower Burmah, and raise their white and golden heads from every towering cleft of rock, and every mossy grove. As we neared Mandalay we passed many groups of half-ruined shrines, images and pagodas, covered with moss and creeper, deserted by the human beings who erected them, and visited now only by the birds and other jungle folk, who build their nests and make their homes in the shade of the once gorgeous buildings. They look very picturesque, rising above the tangled undergrowth that surrounds them, but pitifully lonely.
We stopped at a great number of stations en route. The platforms were always crowded with natives of every description, at all hours of the day and night, selling their wares, greeting their friends, or smoking contentedly, and viewing with complacency the busy scene.
The natives of India, with their fierce sullen faces, frightened me; the cunning Chinese, ever ready to drive a hard bargain, amused but did not attract me; but the merry, friendly little Burmese were a continual delight.
They swaggered up and down in their picturesque costumes, smoking their huge cheroots, the men regarding with self-satisfied and amused contempt the noisy chattering crowd of Madrassees and Chinese, the women coquetting in the most graceful and goodnatured way with everyone in turn. When they had paid their devoirs to the old chief, they would crowd round my carriage window offering their wares, taking either my consent or refusal to be a purchaser as the greatest joke, and laughing merrily at my vain attempts to understand them.
I fell in love with them on the spot, they are such jolly people and such thorough gentlefolk.
It was very interesting in the early morning to watch the signs of awakening life in the many Burmese villages through which we passed. To see the caravans of bullock carts or mules setting out on their journey to the neighbouring town, and the pretty little Burmese girls coquetting with their admirers as they carried water from the well, or chattering and whispering merrily together as they performed their toilet by the stream, decking their hair with flowers and ribbons, and donning their delicately coloured pink and green "tamehns."
Here we met a procession of yellow-robed "hpoongyis" and their followers, marching through the village with their begging bowls, to give the villagers an opportunity of performing the meritorious duty of feeding them. There a procession of men, women, and children walking sedately towards a pagoda, with offerings of fruit or flowers; to contemplate the image of the mighty Gaudama, to hear the reading of the Word, and to meditate upon the Holy Life. Now we passed a group of little hpoongyi pupils with their shaven crowns and yellow robes, sitting solemnly round their teacher in the open-sided kyaung. Anon we passed a jovial crew of merrymakers in their most brilliantly coloured costumes, jogging along gaily behind their ambling bullocks, to some Pwé or Pagoda Feast, which they are already enjoying in anticipation.
And the strange part of it all is that nowhere does one see sorrow, poverty, or suffering; outwardly at least, all is bright and happy. I suppose the Burman must have his troubles like other folk, but if so he hides them extremely well under a cheerful countenance. Surely in no other inhabited country could we travel so far without beholding some sign of misery.
I think the great charm of Burmah lies in the happiness and brightness of its people; their merriment is infectious, and they make others happy by the mere sight of their contentment.
We arrived at Mandalay about three o'clock in the afternoon. The last few hours of the journey were most unpleasantly hot, and I was very glad when we steamed into the station, and I saw my brother-in-law (who had descended from his "mountain heights" to meet me) waiting on the platform. The journey had been delightful in many ways, but after being twenty-two hours boxed up in a railway carriage with a chattering ayah, it was a great relief to reach one's destination at last.
When I arrived in Mandalay I was filled with an overwhelming gratitude towards Mr. Rudyard Kipling for his poem on the subject.
Rangoon, fascinating and interesting though it be, is yet chiefly an Anglo-Indian town, but Mandalay, though the Palace and Throne room have been converted into a club, though its Pagodas and shrines have been desecrated by the feet of the alien, and though its bazaar has become a warehouse for the sale of Birmingham and Manchester imitations, yet, spite of all, this former stronghold of the Kings of Burmah still retains its ancient charm.
When first I experienced the fascination of this wonderful town, my feelings were too deep for expression, and I suffered as a soda water bottle must suffer, until the removal of the cork brings relief. Suddenly there flashed into my mind three lines of Mr. Kipling's poem, and as I wandered amid "them spicy garlic smells, the sunshine and the palm trees and the tinkly temple bells," I relieved my feelings by repeating those wonderfully descriptive lines; I was once again happy, and I vowed an eternal gratitude to the author.
Before the end of my two days stay in Mandalay I began to look on him as my bitterest foe, and to regard the publication of that poem as a personal injury.
The Hotel in which we stayed was also occupied by a party of American "Globe Trotters." In all probability they were delightful people, as are most of their countrymen. They were immensely popular among the native hawkers, who swarmed upon the door steps and verandahs, and sold them Manchester silks and glass rubies at enormous prices. But we acquired a deeply rooted objection to them, springing from their desire to live up to their surroundings.
We should have forgiven them, had they confined themselves to eating Eastern fruits and curries, wearing flowing Burmese silken dressing gowns, and smattering their talk with Burmese and Hindustani words. But these things did not satisfy them. Evidently they believed that they could only satisfactorily demonstrate their complete association with their surroundings, by singing indefatigably, morning, noon, and night, that most un-Burmese song, "Mandalay."
They sang it hour after hour, during the whole of the two days we spent in the place.
In their bedrooms, and about the town they hummed and whistled it, during meals they quoted and recited it. At night, and when we took our afternoon siesta, they sang it boldly, accompanying one another on the cracked piano, and all joining in the chorus with a conscientious heartiness that did them credit.
We tossed sleepless on our couches, wearied to death of this endless refrain that echoed through the house: or, if in a pause between the verses we fell asleep for a few seconds, it was only to dream of a confused mixture of "Moulmein Pagodas," flying elephants, and fishes piling teak, till we were once again awakened by the uninteresting and eternally reiterated information that "the dawn comes up like thunder out of China 'cross the Bay."
The only relief we enjoyed, was that afforded by one member of the party who sang cheerfully: "On the Banks of Mandalay," thereby displaying a vagueness of detail regarding the geographical peculiarities of the place, which is so frequently (though no doubt wrongly) attributed to his nation.
And here I pause with the uncomfortable feeling that in writing my experiences of Burmah, I ought to make some attempt to describe this far-famed city of Mandalay, the wonders of its palaces, the richness of its pagodas, the brilliancy of its silk bazaar, and its other thousand charms.
But such a task is beyond me. Others may aspire to paint in glowing colours the fascinations of this royal town, and the beauty of the wonderful buildings; but in my modesty I refrain, for to my great regret I saw little of them. My stay in the town was too short, and I was too weary after my journey, to admit of much sight-seeing. Beyond a short drive through the delightful eastern streets, and a hurried glimpse of the Throne Room, I saw nothing of the place, and the only thing I clearly recollect is the Moat, which I admired immensely, mistaking it for the far-famed Irrawaddy!
Therefore I will pass by Mandalay with that silent awe which we always extend to the Unknown, and leave it to cleverer pens than mine to depict its charms. "I cannot sing of that I do not know," especially nowadays when so many people do know, and are quite ready to tell one so.
——
We left Mandalay at half-past three in the morning, (our heavy baggage having preceded us in bullock carts the night before) and with our bedding and hand baggage packed with ourselves into a "ticca gharry," we started at that unearthly hour on our seventeen miles drive to the foot of the hills, where our ponies awaited us.
As we left the last lights of the town behind us, and drove out into the dreary looking country beyond, I was filled with a mixture of elation and alarm, but when my brother-in-law (I knew not whether seriously or in fun) remarked that he hoped we should meet no dacoits, the feeling of alarm predominated.
It would be an adventure, and I had come there purposely for adventure, but an adventure does not appear so fascinating in the dark at three o'clock in the morning, as it does at noonday. I was quite willing to have it postponed. However my companion seemed at home, and settled himself to sleep in his corner, so I endeavoured to do likewise.
But somehow sleep seemed impossible. The shaking and rattling of the uncomfortable "gharry," the strange shadows of the trees, and the dark waste of paddy fields stretching before and around us, faintly showing in the mysterious grey light of the dawn, all combined to prevent me from following my brother's example.
On and on we drove along that interminable road, cramped, weary, and impatient; I sat in silence with closed eyes, waiting longingly for the end of our journey, wondering what strange people inhabited this dreary tract of land, and dreaming of the possible adventures to be encountered in the wild country towards which we were travelling.
Suddenly the gharry stopped abruptly; there was a loud cry from the gharry wallah, a confused medley of Burmese voices, and I sprang up to find we were surrounded by a large body of evil looking men, armed with "dahs." We were "held up" by dacoits!
My brother started up, shouting eager threats and imprecations to the men, and sprang from the carriage. I caught a glimpse of him surrounded by natives, fighting fiercely with his back to the carriage door, while he shouted to me to hand him his revolver from the back seat of the gharry.
But ere I could do so, my attention was called to the matter of my own safety. Three natives had come round to my side of the gharry, the door was wrenched open, and a huge native flourishing a large "dah" rushed at me, evidently with the intention of procuring the revolver himself.
At that moment all feelings of fear left me, and I only felt furiously angry. Quickly I seized my large roll of bedding, and pulling it down before me received the blow in the folds; then when the knife was buried in the clothes, I crashed the revolver with all my force in the face of the dacoit, and he fell unconscious at my feet, leaving the "dah" in my possession.
The remaining natives rushed at me, and I had no time to lose. Pulling down my brother's bedding roll, I doubled my defence, and from behind it endeavoured to stab at the attacking natives with the captured "dah," dodging their blows behind my barricade. The door of the gharry was narrow, and they could only come at me one at a time.
After playing "bo peep" over my blankets for a little time, they retired, and I was just turning to assist my brother, when suddenly, they rushed my defence, one behind the other, pushed over my barricade with me under it, fell on the top themselves, and we all rolled a confused heap on the bottom of the gharry.
At that moment the man at the pony's head relaxed his hold on the bridle, and the animal, with a speed and energy unusual in Burmese ponies, escaped and galloped down the road, dragging behind it the battered gharry, on the floor of which I and the two natives were struggling.
Faster and faster went the pony, till we seemed to be flying through the air, the door hanging open, and we three fighting for life inside. I made haste to crawl under a seat, and again barricaded myself with my bedding roll, but it was quite clear to me that the struggle could not last much longer; I was at my wit's end, and my strength was nearly exhausted.
Then the natives climbed on to the seat opposite, and pulled and pushed my barricade, until at last I could hold it no longer. They dragged it away, and threw it from the gharry. My neck was seized between two slimy brown hands, I was pulled from my hiding place, a dark evil looking face peered gloatingly into mine, and then I suppose I lost consciousness, for I remember nothing more until——I awoke, and found we had arrived at the foot of the hills; not a dacoit had we encountered, and the whole affair had been only a dream.
I was disappointed: I feel I shall never be so heroic again, or have such another opportunity for the display of my bravery.
I cannot remember the name of the village at the foot of the hills where we found our ponies waiting, and I certainly could not spell it if I did. It consisted of a mere half a dozen native huts, set down by the road side, and looked a most deserted little place. While our ponies were saddled, and our baggage transferred from the gharry to the bullock cart in attendance, we walked round the village, very glad to stretch our legs after the cramped ride.
All the natives stared at us, as they went leisurely about their daily work; the girls in their brightly coloured, graceful dresses, going slowly to the well, carrying their empty kerosene oil cans, the almost universal water pots of the Burman; the men lounging about, smoking big cheroots, and evidently lost in deep meditation; and the old women sitting in their low bamboo huts, grinding paddy, cooking untempting looking mixtures, or presiding over the sale of various dried fruits and other articles, for in Burmah there is rarely a house where something is not sold.
On the whole, we on our part did not excite very much interest. It needs more than the advent of two strangers to rouse the contemplative Burman from his habitual state of dreaminess.
In one hut I saw a family sitting round their meal, laughing and chatting merrily, while a wee baby, clad in gorgeous silk attire (it looked like the mother's best dress) danced before them in the funniest and most dignified manner, encouraged and coached by an elder sister, aged about seven. They looked such a merry party that I quite longed to join them, for I was beginning to feel hungry, but I changed my mind on a nearer view of the breakfast, a terrible mixture of rice and curried vegetables, with what looked remarkably like decayed fish for a relish.
All this time, though outwardly calm and happy, I was inwardly suffering from ever increasing feelings of dread at the thought of the ordeal before me. As I have explained elsewhere, I have always had a terror of horses, and had not ridden for eleven years, not in fact since I was a child, and then I invariably fell off with or without any provocation. But here was I, with twenty-six miles of rough road between me and my destination, and no way of traversing that distance save on horseback. Knowing my peculiarities, my brother had begged the very quietest pony from the police lines at Mandalay, the animal bearing this reputation stood saddled before me, and I could think of no further excuse for longer delaying our start.
Accordingly, I advanced nervously towards the pony, who looked at me out of the corners of his eyes in an inexplicable manner, and after three unsuccessful attempts, and much unwonted embracing of my brother, I at last succeeded in mounting, and the reins (an unnecessary number of them it seemed to me) were thrust into my hands.
I announced myself quite comfortable and ready to start; may Heaven forgive the untruth! But evidently my steed was not prepared to depart. I "clucked" and shook the reins, and jumped up and down on the saddle in the most encouraging way, but the pony made no movement.
My brother, already mounted and off, shouted to me to "come on." It was all very well to shout in that airy fashion, I couldn't well "come on" without the pony, and the pony wouldn't.
At last he did begin to move, backwards!
This was a circumstance for which I was wholly unprepared. If a horse runs away, naturally, he is to be stopped by pulling the reins, but if he runs away backwards, there seems nothing to be done; whipping only encourages him to run faster. I tried to turn the pony round, so that if he persisted in continuing to walk backwards, we might at any rate progress in the right direction, but he preferred not to turn, and I did not wish to insist, lest he should become annoyed; to annoy him at the very outset of the journey I felt would be the height of imprudence.
The natives of the village gathered round, and with that wonderful capacity for innocent enjoyment for which the Burmese are noted, watched the performance with the deepest interest and delight, while I could do nothing but try to appear at ease, as though I really preferred to travel in that manner.
At last however, my brother would wait no longer, and shouting to the orderly and sais, he made them seize the bridle of my wilful pony, and drag us both forcibly from the village.
And so we started.
Oh! that ride—what a nightmare it was! The pony justified his reputation, and was certainly the most quiet animal imaginable. He preferred not to move at all, but when forced to do so, the pace was such that a snail could easily have given him fifty yards start in a hundred, and a beating, without any particular exertion. He did not walk, he crawled.
In vain did I encourage him in every language I knew, in vain did the sais and orderly ride behind beating him, or in front pulling him, our efforts were of no avail. Once or twice, under great persuasion, he broke into what faintly suggested a trot, for about two minutes, but speedily relapsed again into his former undignified crawl.
My brother at last lost patience and rode on ahead, leaving me to the tender mercies of the sais, who, no longer under the eye of his master, and seeing no reason to hurry, soon ceased his efforts, and we jogged on every minute more slowly, till I fell into a sleepy trance, dreaming that I should continue thus for ever, riding slowly along through the silent Burmese jungle, wrapped in its heavy noon-day sleep, till I too should sink under the spell of the sleep god, and become part of the silence around me.
But the scenery was glorious, and I had ample time to admire it. Our road wound up the side of a jungle clad hill, around and above us rose other hills covered with the gorgeous vari-coloured jungle trees and shrubs. Immediately below us lay a deep wooded ravine, shut in by the hills, and far away behind us stretched miles and miles of paddy fields and open country shrouded in a pale blue-grey mist. I cannot imagine grander scenery; what most nearly approach it are views in Saxon Switzerland, but the latter can be compared only as an engraving to a painting, the colour being lacking.
What most impressed me was the absolute silence, and the utter absence of any sign of human life. All round us lay miles and miles of unbroken jungle, inhabited only by birds and beasts; all nature seemed silent, mysterious, and void of human sympathies as in the first days of the world, before man came to conquer, and in conquering to destroy the charm. It is impossible quite to realise this awe-inspiring loneliness of the jungle
We halted for breakfast at a small wayside village, where we found the usual mat "dâk" bungalow, guarded by the usual extortionate khansamah, and surrounded by the usual dismal compound full of chickens.
Here it was that I made my first acquaintance with the world renowned Burmese chicken, an acquaintance destined to become more and more close, until it blossomed into a deep and never to be forgotten hatred.
The Burmese chicken, whose name is legion, is a thin haggard looking fowl, chiefly noted for his length of leg, and utter absence of superfluous flesh. He picks up a precarious living in the compounds of the houses to which he is attached, and leads a sad, anxious life, owing to the fact that he is generally recognised as the legitimate prey of any man or beast, who at any time of the day or night may be seized with a desire to "chivy."
Consequently he wears a harassed, expectant look, knowing that the end will overtake him suddenly and without warning. One hour he is happily fighting with his comrades over a handful of grain, within the next he has been killed, cooked, and eaten without pity, though frequently with after feelings of repentance on the part of the eater.
It is, doubtless, the kindly heart of the native cook that prevents him killing the bird more than half an hour before the remains are due at table; he does not wish to cut off a happy life sooner than is absolutely necessary. It is, doubtless too, the same gentle heart that induces him to single out for slaughter the most ancient of fowls, leaving the young and tender (if a Burmese chicken ever is tender) still to rejoice in their youth. If this be so, there is displayed a trait of native character deserving appreciation—which appreciation the result, however, fails as a rule to secure.
It is wonderful what a variety of disguises a Burmese chicken can take upon itself. The quick change artist is nowhere in comparison.
It appears successively as soup, joint, hash, rissoles, pie, patties and game. It is covered with rice, onions, and almonds, and raisins, and dubbed "pillau"; it is covered with cayenne pepper and called a savoury. It is roasted, boiled, baked, potted, and curried, and once I knew an enterprising housekeeper mix it with sardines and serve up a half truth in the shape of "fish cakes."
But under whatever name it may appear, in whatever form it be disguised, it may be invariably recognised by the utter absence of any flavour whatever.
After breakfast, my brother assumed his most stern judicial expression and gave me to understand gently but firmly, that he refused to continue our journey under existing circumstances, and that if I really could not induce my pony to progress faster, I must mount that of the orderly, and leave the laggard to be dealt with by a male hand. I could not object; I was alone in a distant land far from the protection of my family; I could only agree to the proposal with reluctance, and disclaim all responsibility with regard to my own or the new pony's safety.
Accordingly, the saddles were changed, much to the dissatisfaction of the orderly, and I was speedily mounted on my new steed.
At first the exchange appeared to be an improvement. The pony had a brisk walk, and we progressed quite as rapidly as I wished. I began to feel an accomplished horse-woman, and when my brother suggested a two miles canter, I consented after but a few objections.
We started gaily, and we did canter two miles without a break, and the pony and I did not part company during the proceedings, but that is all I can say.
I have frequently heard foolish people talk of the unspeakable joy of a wild gallop, the delightful motion, the exhilaration of rushing through the air, with a good horse beneath you. Once I listened to such talkers with credulity, now I listen in astonishment. Our gallop was wild enough in all conscience, but after the first three minutes I became convinced it was the most uncomfortable way of getting about I had ever experienced.
I started elegantly enough, gripping my pummel tightly between my knees, and sitting bolt upright, but I soon gave up all ideas of putting on unnecessary "side" of that sort; this ride was no fancy exhibition, it was grim earnest.
I and the pony were utterly out of sympathy with one another, and I am sure the latter did all he could to be tiresome out of pure "cussedness." Whenever I bumped down, he seemed to bump up, and the result was painful; whenever I pulled the reins he merely tossed his head scornfully; and I am sure the saddle must have been slipping about (though it appeared firm enough afterwards), for I landed on all parts of it in turn.
To add to my troubles my sola topee became objectionable.
It was not an ordinary looking topee; it being my first visit to the East, of course I had procured an exceedingly large one, and in addition to its great size, it was very heavy and very ugly. I fancy it was originally intended to be helmet shaped, but its maker had allowed his imagination to run away with him, and when finished, it was the most extraordinary looking headdress that ever spoilt the appearance of a naturally beautiful person.
It resembled rather a swollen plum pudding in a very large dish, than a respectable sola topee.
It was so constructed inside as to fit no existingly shaped human head, and consequently required to be balanced with the greatest care. By dint of sitting very upright I had succeeded in keeping it on my head during the earlier stages of my journey, but now I had more important matters to think of than sola topees, and consequently it became grievously offended, and (being abnormally sensitive, as are most deformed creatures) it commenced to wobble about in a most alarming manner.
On and on we went. I had almost ceased to have any feeling in my legs and body, and began to wonder vaguely what strange person's head had got on to my shoulders, it seemed to fit so loosely. We flew past the second milestone, but my brother, who rode just ahead of me, absorbed no doubt in the joys of the gallop, never stayed his reckless course. I could not stop my pony, because both hands were, of course, engaged in holding on to the saddle. I lost my stirrup; it was never any good to me, but my foot felt lonely without it. My knees were cramped, my head ached, and finally my sola topee, unable longer to endure its undignified wobble, descended slowly over my face and hung there by its elastic, effectually blocking out everything from my sight.
I would have infinitely preferred to have fallen off, but did not know how to do so comfortably.
At last, with a mighty effort I crouched in the saddle, gingerly released one hand, pushed aside the topee from before my mouth, and yelled to my brother to stop. He turned, saw something unusual in my appearance, and, thank goodness! stopped.
It could not have lasted much longer; either I or the pony would have been obliged to give way. When I indignantly explained to my brother what the pony had been doing, all he said was that he hoped to goodness I had not given it a sore back. I know its back could not have been a quarter as sore as was mine! I did not gallop again that or any other day.
We spent the night in another "dâk" bungalow, consisting of three mat walled sleeping apartments, scantily furnished, and an open veranda where we dined. We dined off chicken variously disguised, and being very stiff and weary, retired early to bed.
During dinner, my brother casually remarked that on his last visit there he had killed a snake in the roof, and on retiring to my room I remembered his words and trembled.
I don't know much about snakes, save only that a "king cobra" alone will attack without provocation; therefore, if one is attacked, the reptile is almost certain to be a snake of that species.
What precautions should therefore be taken to defend one's life I have not ascertained, but I give the information as affording at any rate some satisfaction in case of attack.
The roof of my room was thatched, and looked the very dwelling place of snakes, and how could I possibly defend myself from attack (supposing king cobras inhabited that district), when they might drop down on me while I slept, or come up through the chinks and holes in the wooden floor, and bite my feet when I was getting into bed? The situation was a desperate one. What was to be done?
After half an hour, I was forced to abandon my plan of sitting up all night on the table, under my green sun-umbrella; the table was so rickety that I fell off whenever I dozed, and the situation became painful.
At last a new plan occurred to me. I took a wild leap from the table to the bed, and succeeded in rigging up a tent with the mosquito curtain props, and a sheet. Then, secure from all dangers from below or above, I fell fast asleep, and awoke next morning to find myself still alive and unharmed.
I am convinced that more than one cunning serpent that night returned foiled to its lair, having at last encountered a degree of cunning surpassing its own.
We made an early start next morning, as we had still twelve miles to ride before the day grew hot.
The orderly objected to ride further on a snail, and had put my saddle once more on my original pony, so I finished my ride without further mishap.
It was a delicious morning; the early lights and shadows of dawn and sunrise enhanced the beauty of the richly coloured jungle bordering the road. On all sides we were surrounded by the tall, dark, waving trees, and the thick green, pink, golden, and red-brown under-growth, save occasionally when the close bushes were cleared a little, and we caught tempting glimpses of shady moss covered glades, chequered by the sunlight peering through the thick leaves. Everything was very still, and except for the soft whisper of the jungle grass, a great silence brooded over all.
Suddenly there broke upon my ears a strange sound, weird, mystic, wonderful. It was a heavy, grating, creaking noise, more horrible than aught I had heard before. Nearer and nearer it came; and now it could be distinguished as the cry of some mighty beast in pain, for the first and fundamental noise was varied by shrill screams and deep, painful groans. Was it a wounded elephant? No! surely no living elephant ever gave voice to such terrible, awe-inspiring sounds. It must be some far mightier beast, some remnant of the prehistoric ages, which remained still to drag out a lonely existence, hidden from human eyes, in this far Burmese jungle.
But now it was close upon us; the noise was deafening, making day hideous; round the corner of the road appeared four huge, horns, two meek looking white heads, and——a bullock cart.
That was the sole cause of this hideous disturbance, of these ear-piercing shrieks which rent the air. As usual, the wheels of the cart were formed of solid circles of wood, not even rounded, and carefully unoiled, and from these emanated those horrible shrieks, groans, and creaks, which are the delight and security of the Burmese driver, and the terror of tigers and panthers haunting the road.
How eminently peaceful must be the life of the bullock-cart driver! He knows no hurry, no anxiety, no responsibility.
Hour after hour, day after day he jogs along, seated on the front of his cart, occasionally rousing himself to joke and gossip with friends he may meet on the way, or to encourage his team by means of his long bamboo stick, but more often he sits wrapped in a deep sleep, or meditation, trusting for guidance to the meek solemn-faced bullocks which he drives. His work is done, his life is passed in one long continuous, sleeping, smoking, and eating sort of existence; the thought of such a life of careless, uneventful, unambitious happiness, is appalling.
BURMESE BULLOCK CART
I grew somewhat weary of the frequent opportunities I had of studying the bullock carts and their drivers during that morning ride. Every cart jogged on its noisy way along the very centre of the road; but it is not meet that a Sahib and a representative of the great Queen should occupy anything but the very centre of the road when taking his rides abroad. Consequently whenever we met a bullock cart both cavalcades had to stop. It was a work of time to make the driver hear the orderly's voice, above the creaking of the wheels; more time was occupied in rousing him from his sleep, and explaining to him the situation; and more time again in explaining matters to the bullocks, and inducing them to drag the cart into the ditch.
It took five minutes to pass each cart, and as we met a great many that morning as we approached the village, our progress was considerably delayed. I should have preferred for the sake of speed to have ridden in the ditch myself; at the same time I am aware such opinions are unworthy of the relation of an Indian Civilian.
My entrance into Remyo, the future scene of my experiences, at half-past ten that morning was striking, though hardly dignified.
Picture to yourself a sorrowful, huddled figure, seated on a weary dishevelled looking pony, covered from head to foot with red dust, and surmounted by a large battered topee "tip-tilted like the petal of a flower." I had long ceased to make any pretence at riding. I sat sideways on my saddle, as one sits in an Irish car, grasping in one hand the pummel and in the other my large green sun umbrella, for the sun was terribly hot. How weary I was, and how overjoyed at arriving at my destination!
But even yet my troubles were not over. There was the house, there my sister waiting in the veranda to welcome me, but directly my pony arrived at the gate of the compound he stopped dead. Apparently it was not in the bond that I should be carried up to the door, and so no further would he go. I was too impatient to argue the matter, too weary to give an exhibition of horsemanship, so there was nothing to do but descend, walk up the compound, and tumble undignifiedly into the house, where the first thing I did was to register a vow that never again, except in a case of life and death, would I attempt to ride a Burmese pony.
"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife."—(Gray.)
——
I daresay that Remyo is very like other small up-country stations in Burmah, but to me it appeared to be the very end of the earth, so different was it from all I had expected. It stands in a small valley, surrounded by low jungle-clad hills. The clearing is perhaps three miles long by one and-a-half wide, but there always appeared to be more jungle than clearing about the place, so quickly does the former spread.
The Station is traversed crosswise by two rough tracks called by courtesy roads, and is surrounded by what is imposingly termed "The Circular Road." This road, but recently constructed, is six or seven miles long, and passes mostly outside the clearing, being consequently bordered in many places on both sides by thick jungle.
There is something infinitely pathetic to my mind about this poor new road, wandering aimlessly in the jungle, leading nowhere and used by no one. At regular distances there stand by the wayside tall posts bearing numbers. The lonely posts mark the situations of houses which it is hoped will, in the future, be built on the allotments which they represent. In theory, the circular road is lined with houses, for Remyo has a great future before it; but just at present, the future is travelling faster than the station, and consequently the poor road is allowed to run sadly into the jungle alone, its course known only to the dismal representatives of these future houses.
The only finished building near which this road passes is the railway station, a neat wooden erection, possessing all the requirements of a small wayside station, and lacking only one essential feature—a railway, for the railway, like the great future of Remyo, is late in arriving, and so the road and the railway station are left sitting sadly expectant in the jungle, waiting patiently for the arrival of that future which alone is needed to render them famous.
In Remyo itself there is a fair sized native bazaar, consisting of rows of unpleasant looking mat huts, each raised a few feet from the ground, with sloping overhanging roofs, and open sides. The road through the bazaar is always very dusty, crowded with bullock carts, goats, and dogs, and usually alive with naked Burmese babies of every age and size. Not a pleasant resort on a hot day.
Besides the bazaar, the station contains the Court House, the District Bungalow, and the Post Office; half-a-dozen European houses scattered up and down the clearing, and the club.
To the Anglo-Indians the club seems as necessary to existence as the air they breathe. I verily believe that when the white man penetrates into the interior to found a colony, his first act is to clear a space and build a club house.
The Club House at Remyo is a truly imposing looking edifice, perched high on the hill side, standing in a well kept compound, surrounded by its offices, bungalows, and stables. About the interior of the building I must confess ignorance, it being an unpardonable offence for any woman to cross the threshold. It may be that it is but a whited sepulchre, the exterior beautiful beyond description, the interior merely emptiness: I cannot tell.
At the foot of the Club House stands a tiny, one-roomed, mat hut, the most unpretentious building I ever beheld, universally known by the imposing title of "The Ladies Club." Here two or more ladies of the station nightly assemble for an hour before dinner, to read the two months old magazines, to search vainly through the shelves of the "library" for a book they have not read more than three times, to discuss the iniquities of the native cook, and to pass votes of censure on the male sex for condemning them to such an insignificant building.
It has always been a sore point with the ladies of Remyo that their Club House only contains one room. They argue that if half the members wish to play whist, and the other half wished to talk, many inconveniences (to say the least) would arise. As there are but four lady members of the club, this argument does not appear to me to be convincing, but I do not pretend to understand the intricacies of club life.
I have sometimes been tempted to believe that the ladies would really be happier without a club; possessing one, they feel strongly the necessity of using it, and though they would doubtless prefer sometimes to sit comfortably at home, every evening sees them sally forth determinedly to their tiny hut. There they sit night after night till nearly dark, and then, not daring to disturb the lordly occupants of the big house, to demand protection, they steal home nervously along the jungle bordered road, trembling at every sound, but all the time talking and laughing cheerfully, in order to convince everybody (themselves in particular) that they are not at all afraid of meeting a panther or tiger, in fact would rather prefer to do so than not. Truly the precious club is not an unmixed blessing!
There are a few wooden houses in Remyo, but the majority are merely built of matting, with over-hanging roofs. They are often raised some twenty feet above the ground, and present the extraordinary appearance of having grown out of their clothes like school boys.
The house in which my sister and her husband lived was a wooden erection of unpretentious appearance. I cannot say who was the architect, but a careful consideration of the construction of the house revealed to us much of his method.
In the first place he was evidently an advocate of the benefits of fresh air and light. The house was all doors and windows, not one of them, apparently, intended to shut, and not satisfied with this, the builder had carefully left wide chinks in the walls, and two or three large holes in the roof. The front door opened directly into the drawing-room, the drawing-room into the dining room, the dining-room into the bedrooms, and the bedrooms on to the compound again. Thus we were enabled in all weathers to have a direct draught through the house, and as Remyo is a remarkably windy place, much of our time was occupied in preventing the furniture from being blown away. Whenever anything was missing we invariably found it in the back compound, whither it had been carried by the wind. Life in such an atmosphere was no doubt healthy, but a trifle wearing to the nerves.
The compactness of the house was delightful. All the rooms led out of one another, and there were no inside doors, consequently one could easily carry on a conversation with those in other parts of the house without leaving one's chair or raising one's voice.
The only occasion on which we found this arrangement of the rooms inconvenient was when we stained the dining room floor. The stain did not dry for three days, and during that time all communication between the drawing room and bedrooms was entirely cut off, for the only way from one to the other was through the dining room, and that was impossible, unless we wished our beautiful floor to be covered with permanent foot marks.
Our architect was evidently a dweller in the plains, and the uses of a fireplace were unknown to him. In each of the small bedrooms he had built large open fireplaces, worthy of a baronial hall, while in neither of the sitting rooms was there the slightest vestige of a fireplace of any sort or kind whatever.
This was a little inconvenient. Naturally an affectionate and gregarious family party, we did not like to spend our evenings, each sitting alone before our own palatial bedroom fireplace; being properly brought up, and proud of our drawing room, we preferred to occupy it, and often, as I sat shivering while the wind tore through the rooms, whistling and shrieking round the furniture, and the rain poured through the roof, I wondered what was supposed to be the use of a house at all; we should have done quite as well without one, except, of course, for the look of the thing.
Modern inventions such as bells appear unknown in Remyo. If you want anything you must shout for it until you get it.
When calling on a neighbour you stand outside the front door, and shout for five minutes, if no one appears in that time, you assume they are not at home, put your cards on the doorstep or through a chink in the wall, and depart. It is a primitive arrangement, but still, not without advantages. If you don't wish to find people at home, you shout softly.
We were superior to all our neighbours in the possession of a bell. We hung it up in the compound near the servants' "go downs," and passed the bell rope through various holes in the walls, etc., to the dining room. I don't know where the bell originally came from, but I think it must have come from a pagoda, for it was undoubtedly bewitched. It rang at all hours of the day and night without provocation. Once it pealed out suddenly at midnight and rang steadily for half-an-hour, when it as suddenly stopped. This was probably caused by some birds swinging on the rope, but it was most uncanny.
The servants used to answer the bell at first when it rang in the day time, until the joke palled on them, and they became suddenly deaf to its call. They never answered it at night: I fancy they thought when they heard it then, that the house was attacked by dacoits or tigers and we were ringing for help, and they deemed it more prudent to remain shut up in their "go downs." When we attempted to ring the bell with a purpose, it invariably stuck somewhere and would not sound. We never ceased to feel proud of the possession of our bell, but ceased at last to expect it to be of any practical use.
When my sister first showed me over her house, my heart sank in spite of my ostensible admiration, for where was the kitchen? Did dwellers in Remyo eat no cooked food; must I be satisfied with rice and fruits? However, my doubts were soon set at rest when we visited the compound, for there stood a tiny tin shed, inside which was a broad brick wall, with three holes for fires, and what looked like a dog kennel, but which I learned was the oven. A fire was lighted inside the oven, and when the walls were red hot the burning logs were pulled out, the bread placed in, and walled up.
How anyone managed to cook anything successfully thus was a marvel to me. I had gone out to Remyo, fresh from a course of scientific cooking lectures, intending to rejoice the palates of the poor exiles with the dainty dishes I would cook for their edification. When I saw that kitchen, and when I learned that such a thing as a pair of scales did not exist in the station, all measuring being done by guess work, I gave up all hope of fulfilling my intention, and looked upon the native cook as the most talented gentleman of my acquaintance.
The furniture in Remyo is of the "let-us-pack-up-quickly-and-remove" type. It is of the lightest and most unsubstantial kind, and has the air of having seen many sales and many owners.
The most prominent article in nearly every house is the deck chair, faithful and much travelled chair, which has accompanied its master over the sea from England, and wandered with him into many a dreary little out-of-the-way village, where perchance he sees for months no fellow white man, and where his chair and pipe alone receive his confidences, and solace his soul in the utter loneliness of the jungle. No wonder then that the deck chair wears an important air, and regards other pieces of furniture, which probably change owners every six months, with contemptuous scorn.
The impossibility of having a settled home in Burmah is very pathetic. In Rangoon, the interior of the houses occasionally wear a settled and homelike appearance, but in the jungle, never. Everything is selected with a view to quick packing; pictures, ornaments, and useless decorations are reduced to a minimum, and only articles of furniture which are indispensable are seen. When one is liable to be moved elsewhere at four days' notice, there is no encouragement to take deep root, the frequent uprooting would be too painful.
This spirit of constant change seems to enter into the blood of the Anglo-Indian, for the housewife is perpetually moving her furniture, "turning her rooms round" so to speak, and she never seems to keep anything in the same place for more than a week!
After all, not Burmah, but England is looked upon as "Home." Even the man of twenty-five years service whose family, friends, and interests may be all centred in Burmah, who loves the life he leads there, and is proud of the position he holds, even he talks of what he will do when he "goes home," and in imagination crowns with a halo "this little precious stone set in the silver sea, this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England," which no amount of fog, cold, monotony, and dreary oblivion in his after life here, ever dispels. However happy and prosperous the Anglo-Indian may be in his exile, going to England, is "going home."
Our most unique piece of furniture was the piano.
I do not remember who was the maker of this renowned instrument, but its delicate constitution was most unhappily disorganised by the climate. When first it came to us it was quite a nice piano, rather jingling, and not always in tune, but "fit to pass in a crowd with a shove." Alas! the Remyo climate was fatal; the degeneration commenced at once, and proceeded so rapidly, that in three months all was over.
The first indication of trouble was a serious feud between several of the notes, which would persist in making use of one another's tones, and would not work in harmony. For example, when one struck C sharp, it promptly sang out high F's tone, and high F, being deprived of its lawful voice, was forced to adopt a sound like nothing we had ever heard before. Then E flat became officious and conceited, and persisted in sounding its shrill note through the whole of the piece in performance, while G on the contrary was sulky, and wouldn't sound at all.
Now all this was, of course, most disconcerting to other notes which had hitherto behaved in an exemplary manner. Some became flurried and nervous, and sang totally wrong tones, or sounded their own in such a doubtful, apologetic manner that it was of very little effect. Others grew annoyed, sided with various leaders in the quarrels, jangling together noisily, and persisting in sounding discords and interrupting each other. Others again were seized with a mischievous spirit; they mocked and mimicked their companions, and vied with one another in producing the most extraordinary and unpleasant noises.
Chaos and anarchy reigned in the piano case, all laws of sound and harmony were o'erthrown, the bass clef could no longer be trusted to produce a low note, nor the treble a high one, and a chromatic scale produced such an extraordinary conglomeration of sounds, as would certainly have caused a German band to die of envy.
This could not continue for ever, and at last came reaction. Whether caused by the quarterly visit of the Mandalay chaplain, or by the shocked and pained expression on the face of a musical friend who called one day when I was sounding (it could no longer be called playing) the piano, I know not, but certain it is, the piano was suddenly seized with remorse. Notes conquered their thieving propensities, differences were patched up, discord and jangling ceased, and the whole community, as a sign of real repentance, took upon itself the vow of silence.
Not a sound could we extract from the once noisy keys, save occasionally a sad whisper from the treble, or a low murmur from the bass. After a time, even these ceased, and the once harmonious and soul-stirring tones of the piano, passed entirely into the Land of Silence.