AN UP-COUNTRY STATION.
"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.