Their destination was Kyauktan, a Burman name that means a "ridge of
rock." As you go up the river to Rangoon a low ridge is visible,
inland, on the right, almost parallel to the muddy bank, and not very
far from it. It is a ridge of rock; but, in that benignant land, there
seems to be something indecent, or at least savouring of skeletons, in
bare rocks like those of more desolate countries; and in this
instance, as usual there, you may know the rock is below, but you see
only the elevated greenery. Towards the seaward end of the ridge is
Kyauktan, a little country town on a tidal creek, invisible from the
ocean steamers. There was the new home of our happy heroine. There she
lived in her master's house, amid abundance infinite to her, because
she could not measure it. Milk and rice she tolerated, as other
children do; but even of these she took only what she wanted; and she
had an embarrassing choice of riches of other kinds, enough to make
any honey-bear quite happy.
The deep black of her fine fur was relieved by beautiful white lines
on her bosom, meeting in the middle, like a necklace with a pendant on
the breast. As she squatted on her haunches her nose was little above
the edge of the table; but when she stood up to help herself, as she
was continually doing, the natural decoration on her bosom was
conspicuous, and she almost seemed as if quite nicely dressed.
Table manners she had none. How could she have manners when she had no
hands? The word "manners" comes from the word for hand (main, manus).
Manners mean a dexterity that hands make possible for men and monkeys,
but not for bears. If they had had the hands and we their paws, the
evolution of species would have taken a different turn, and the course
of the world's history changed indeed! Our heroine had to adapt
herself, and did it with great dexterity, but she could not grow
hands. Her method at table was to reach forth both her paws, and scoop
in towards herself whatever she wanted; and then she would lift things
to her lips with both paws, using her nails almost as the Chinese do
their chopsticks. It was not her fault that she had to break glasses
and upset dishes and make many a mess.
Her master could deny her nothing. It was therefore lucky for him that
her tastes were not expensive. She liked fruits best, and the fresh
kinds too, which are cheap, not the tinned things. But she was not
bigoted. Her appetite was eclectic. Sweet jam was appreciated, and
honey in a high degree; but she did not altogether refuse marmalade if
she saw nothing better.
Occasionally she was utterly unreasonable, and became troublesome, not
by pulling the tablecloth, as did another Burman bear of my
acquaintance, but by a peculiarity equally characteristic of a pet
that was spoiled. Or it might be attributed to her temperament. It
consisted in being so absorbed in what she saw that she forgot
everything else, just like the ordinary doctrinaire or idealist or
athlete or any other kind of common person, able to see only one thing
at a time. For example, if she saw plantains on the table, and wanted
them, but did not then want any of the milk or sugar or other things
intervening, she ignored what she did not want, and leaned over far
enough to include the plantains in her magnificent embrace, and pulled
the plantains to her, unheeding all the rest.
No man is perfect. Her master has confessed that he once or twice was
so provoked at such a performance as to give her a tap on the nose,
whereupon she went and "sulked in a corner," as he expressed it; but
how could he tell what she was thinking?
Some said she whimpered for her mother on such occasions. The Burmans
say, "When the child trips, it cries for its mother"; but it is not
certain that she remembered her early days, for she was but a young
thing when she was caught and taken to a man's house. Her master may
well have been an indifferent substitute for an indulgent parent; but
he was all she had, and his jam was very good.
He was not allowed to monopolise her young affections. She had not
been long in Kyauktan before she had explored the town and even found
her way to the bazaar or market, where the stall-holders, male and
female, welcomed her with open arms.
To tell Europeans of a bear running about loose and being welcomed
with open arms in the markets may seem a fairy tale; and though in a
narrative of fact it is permissible to tell what is stranger than
fiction, still it may be as well to explain a few things that
Europeans cannot easily know. The Kyauktan bazaar was a _retail_
market, where people were never in a hurry, quite different from
Covent Garden; and the bears of Burma have different habits from those
of Europe. They are smaller too; but that is the least of the
difference.
In Europe, if we mean to be rude and impute rudeness, we call a man
a bear. To torture bears was a familiar sport, not long
ago--bear-baiting. We still use the word; and big bears ignominiously
led captive may still be seen, bemocked to make a foolish holiday. All
this implies a hostile attitude which is never seen in Burma.
Perhaps a grim passage in Gibbon's _History_ may be quoted to show the
contrast. It is in chapter xxv, and concerns the great Emperor
Valentinian (A.D. 364–375). He had put his brother Valens on the
throne at Constantinople, and taken charge of the rowdier end of the
world himself.
"In the government of his household, or of his empire, slight, or even
imaginary offences, a hasty word, a casual omission, an involuntary
delay, were chastised by a sentence of immediate death. The
expressions which issued the most readily from the mouth of the
emperor of the West were, 'Strike off his head'; 'Burn him alive';
'Let him be beaten with clubs till he expires'; and his most favoured
ministers soon understood that, by a rash attempt to dispute or
suspend the execution of his sanguinary commands, they might involve
themselves in the guilt and punishment of disobedience. The repeated
gratification of this savage justice hardened the mind of Valentinian
against pity and remorse; and the sallies of passion were confirmed by
the habits of cruelty. He could behold with calm satisfaction the
convulsive agonies of torture and death: he reserved his friendship
for those faithful servants whose temper was the most congenial to his
own. The merit of Maximin, who had slaughtered the noblest families of
Rome, was rewarded with the royal approbation and the prefecture of
Gaul. Two fierce and enormous bears, distinguished by the appellations
of _Innocence_ and Mica Aurea, could alone deserve to share the favour
of Maximin. The cages of those trusty guards were always placed near
the bedchamber of Valentinian, who frequently amused his eyes with the
grateful spectacle of seeing them tear and devour the bleeding limbs
of the malefactors who were abandoned to their rage. Their diet and
exercises were carefully inspected by the Roman emperor; and, when
_Innocence_ had earned her discharge by a long course of meritorious
service, the faithful animal was again restored to the freedom of her
native woods."
Unlike those occidental savages, the heroine of our history, if asked
to eat the flesh of men or even butchers' meat, would have felt as
much insulted as Bernard Shaw himself. I do not mean that either she
or "the Shaw" would rather starve than nibble a chicken; but that
their tastes were delicate, and they preferred cereals and vegetables
and fruits and sweets to any kind of carcasses.
The Burmans call the bear "wetwun," the governor or minister of the
pigs, the "gentleman pig"; and sometimes say, between jest and
earnest, that pigs and bears are good Buddhists. That is because they
are not murderous, though strong. It is only in self-defence that they
ever do hurt. They live in general without taking life; and a nice
she-bear that was sleek and tame was a treat to see, especially as she
was not proud, the unpardonable sin in Mongolian eyes. She was ever
willing to accept little tit-bits of fruit and to stand and be
caressed by anybody.
The woods were near. No doubt she often lifted up her eyes in that
direction; but the sweet things of the table and the excitements of
the bazaar--all the comforts of Charing Cross, so to speak--kept her
from trying to escape.
I once knew a pet that did run away, and after some days' absence came
back again; but in this instance, the bear did not worry her master in
that way. Servants are not partial to pets. She could go wherever she
liked, and perhaps they would not have been sorry if she had departed
altogether. But she always came back. Perhaps it was because she could
escape at any time, as easily to-morrow as to-day. There was no hurry.
She may have intended to go off to the woods at some time or other,
and always postponed it. As Goethe admirably says, "We love to walk
along the plains, with the summit in our eye."
Whatever her feelings or thoughts, when she took her walks abroad,
that is to say, outside her master's little park or compound, she
generally went to the bazaar.