THE BURMESE.
"We are merry folk who would make all merry as ourselves."--"Yeomen
of the Guard."
On my first evening in Remyo I was sitting in the drawing-room, waiting
for the announcement of dinner, when suddenly, the curtain across the
doorway was pulled aside, and a native peered into the room. His
movements were rapid and stealthy, and betokened a desire for escape or
concealment. On seeing me he slipped past the curtain into the room, and
crouched down, as tho' endeavouring to hide himself from without. Then
in the same bending attitude, he glided past the uncurtained window,
across the room where I sat lost in astonishment, and on reaching my
chair, sank on to his knees, placed his raised hands together in a
supplicating manner, and exclaimed in a deferential and prayerful voice
"Sarsiar."!
For a moment I stared at him in wonder, unable to comprehend his
attitude; and then in a flash I understood all.
He was in terrible danger, someone was pursuing him; to escape he had
slipped into the house, and was now imploring me to conceal or to defend
him. I had no thought of hesitation, whatever might be his crime he must
not be left to the rough justice of his pursuers, he must be protected
until the matter could be properly inquired into.
I sprang up and hurried to the window to reconnoitre; four natives stood
in the road; no one else was in sight; perhaps the pursuers were already
in the house.
"Sarsiar, sarsiar, thekinma," he repeated, (or something that sounded
like that).
"All right, all right" I said soothingly: "don't be frightened, you're
safe here," and so saying I quietly bolted the outer door, fastened the
windows, and proceeded to put the room in a state of defence. My
presence of mind evidently astonished him, he stared at me a moment and
once more took up his cry of "Sarsiar, sarsiar".
"It doesn't matter though a dozen Sarsiars are after you," I cried
impatiently: "you are quite safe here; so tell me who is this "Sarsiar,"
and what have you done to him?"
But the wretched man only became still more excited, he crouched lower
than ever, he waved his arms, and burst into a torrent of Burmese
eloquence, in which again and again, occurred the name of his pursuer,
of this much dreaded "Sarsiar."
At last, being quite unable to either comprehend or calm him, I called
aloud to my sister to come and reassure him in his own tongue. She came,
exchanged a few hurried remarks with the fugitive, and then, to my utter
astonishment and indignation, burst out laughing. I angrily demanded an
explanation, and when she had recovered, she gave it.
The native was no terrified victim, flying from a savage foe, but the
head boy announcing that dinner was ready!
The stealthy walk, the crouched air of concealment, the supplicating
attitude, were merely expressions of respect, it being quite contrary
to the Burman's idea of politeness to raise his head above that of his
master.
This excessive politeness on the part of the Burman is highly
commendable, but apt to be inconvenient. It is embarrassing to be waited
on by a man who persists in scuttling about with his body bent almost
double, and who sinks on his knees on every available occasion; it gives
him an air of instability. Some were so full of respect as to dismount
from their ponies and walk past the "Thekins" when they met us in the
road. It must delay business immensely, but no true Burman would allow
himself to be influenced by such a minor consideration.
The Burman is much given to contemplation. He is frequently seized with
a fit of meditation in the midst of most important work, and will sit
for hours, immovable, gazing steadily into vacancy, puffing at his huge
cheroot, and thinking.
So, history relates, did Socrates sit for three days and nights, but
Socrates, poor man, had no cheroot to soothe him. The results of
Socrates' meditation on that particular occasion are unknown; so too are
the results of the rapt meditations of the Burman. Never by word or deed
does he betray what thoughts occupy his mind on these ever recurring
occasions, but someday, who knows? he may be moved to speak, and then
where will be the wisdom of the East and of the West, when compared with
the wisdom of this contemplative nation? Surely it will become small and
of no account, and be no more thought on!
For these fits of meditation are undoubtedly inspired! They may overtake
him at any time, absorbingly, unexpectedly, in a manner highly
inconvenient to all with whom he may come in contact.
I say he is liable continually to such attacks, but certain
surroundings, and circumstances seem more conducive than others to such
contemplative meditation.
For example, if despatched on an important message, such an attack
almost invariably seizes him, and the messenger will remain for hours,
seated by the road side lost in thought, while his impatient master
sits raging and fuming at home, waiting in vain for an answer to his
note. On such an occasion the Burman loses all sense of time, and his
expression of naive astonishment, and patient martyr-like sufferance,
when blamed for his delay, is utterly disarming.
Again, the dusting of a room is most conducive to meditation. I have
frequently seen a native stand for half an hour or more, immovable,
duster in hand, gazing from the window, lost in abstraction. But this
trait, I am told by English housewives, is not confined to Burmese
servants alone. Dusting, I conclude, has a soothing effect on the
nerves.
When the Burman does work, he works with an energy and violence which is
as astonishing as it is unnecessary. To see a loogalay in his energetic
movements, dusting or tidying a room is a lesson to sluggards.
He takes his stand in the centre of the room, and performs a series of
wonderfully intricate and far reaching flag signals with the duster.
Then, after clearing away the broken china and other debris, he slowly
makes a tour of the room, striking violently at each article of
furniture once or twice with the corner of the afore-mentioned duster,
and shaking the same menacingly in the face of every picture and
ornament. Then he turns upside down the books and papers, carefully
hides his mistress's work bag, and his master's favourite pipe,
rearranges the furniture and the ornaments, which have come through
scatheless, to suit his own taste, and the room is finished. In the
matter of floor washing the Burman as a rule prefers to carry out the
precepts stated in Mr. Chevallier's song: "What's the good of anything?
Why nothing." To him it appears an act of supererogation to wash to-day
the floor, which must certainly be dirtied again on the morrow.
But if he be induced, by the stern commands of his mistress to undertake
the task, then indeed is it a day of mourning and discomfort for the
whole household. No spring cleaning carried on by the most
uncompromising and unsympathetic British matron, can approach the misery
and upset caused by Burmese floor washing.
Every male member of the establishment, from the coolie who is mending
the compound path, to the head boy, is recruited to the work, and
reinforcements of "brothers" from the village are called in to assist.
Every piece of furniture in the place is turned upside down, and then
large cans of water are upset "promiscuous like" here and there, until
the whole house is deluged. This accomplished, the concourse of servants
commences to paddle about the house, rescuing books and cushions from
the ravages of the flood, and flapping at the water with cloth and
brooms. No definite scheme is adopted, but the chief idea seems to be to
wet as much of the floor, walls, and furniture as possible. After this
amusement has been pursued for about three hours, the floods are swept
away through the drawing-room and out at the front door, and the damp
and exhausted servants, after proudly announcing: "Floor much clean
now, missis," retire triumphant, to rest their weary limbs for the
remainder of the day. We did not often indulge our desire for
cleanliness in this respect.
The Burman is a great lover of ceremonies and processions. On certain
festival days long picturesque pageants wind thro' the villages on their
way to the pagodas; cart after cart drawn by gaily decorated bullocks
and filled with brightly dressed occupants, many of whom wear fancy
disguises, and dance and posture during the whole of the ride.
It is a strange sight to see "grave and reverend seigneurs" from the
village, arrayed in the most extraordinary costumes, reminding one of an
English Guy Fawkes procession, standing at the front of a cart,
posturing and pulling faces, in a manner that would be ludicrous, were
it not so evidently full of meaning and solemnity. Imitation boats,
dragons and beasts of all sorts take part in these processions, which
for grotesqueness, brilliance of colour, and originality of arrangement
are equalled only in a Drury Lane pantomime or the Lord Mayor's Show.
But the soul of the Burman is not satisfied with his great half yearly
festivals, nor even with the smaller festivities that take place at
every birth, wedding, death, "ear-boring," or other ceremonious
occasion. He seeks ever for other opportunities for procession and
masquerade.
Our Burmese servants found vent for their feelings in waiting at table.
They performed their duties with as much stateliness and ceremony as
time, and our impatient appetites would permit.
No dish, plate, or spoon was brought without the co-operation of the
three loogalays who were in attendance, and the lord chamberlain himself
could not have conducted the course of the meal with more dignity than
did our Burmese butler.
But the greatest triumph was achieved at breakfast time when we partook
of boiled eggs. The clink of the cups, followed by a hush of expectancy
heralded what was coming. The purdah would be drawn aside by an unseen
hand, and the procession would march solemnly into the room, the three
loogalays, one behind the other, bearing each in his hand a very large
dinner plate, in the centre of which stood a small egg in its humble
egg-cup.
Into the room and round the table they would march, then dividing, each
with a bow deposited his precious burden before the person for whom it
was intended, after which the procession was again formed, and
disappeared slowly behind the curtain: all this with an air of solemnity
and display that would not have disgraced a royal levee. Why this
ceremony was confined to eggs, why the porridge and bacon were not
equally favoured I cannot tell, I merely state the facts as I observed
them, leaving the explanation to others more discerning than I.
The greatest treat our own loogalays ever enjoyed in this respect was
brought about one day by a slight mistake I made in giving an order to
Po-Sin, the head butler. My grasp of the language being but slight, my
speech was often a trifle faulty, but I gave orders with a vigorous
confidence, and aided by gesture and "pigeon English" I imagined that I
made myself tolerably comprehensible. On the occasion to which I refer,
I had prepared my sentence elaborately, and summoning Po-Sin, I informed
him that his master would be at home and would want tea at three
o'clock. There must have been some mistake somewhere. Possibly, I
confused the word meaning "office" with the Burmese for "three o'clock."
But whatever be the explanation, about a quarter of an hour later,
chancing to look out of the window, I beheld a procession winding its
way along the road to the Court House, and bearing with it our afternoon
tea equipage displayed to the highest advantage. At the head marched
Po-Sin, proudly brandishing the teapot, then Po-Mya bearing the muffins,
Po Thin with the tray and tea-cups, and behind, in regular order, the
other numerous members of our establishment, each bearing some dish,
jug, or spoon. They had gone too far to be overtaken, tho' they walked
with becoming dignity, so with deep foreboding, I watched them disappear
round the corner of the road leading to the Court House.
Presently I saw the disconcerted procession returning, headed this time
by my infuriated brother-in-law, who had been interrupted in the midst
of an important case, by the solemn entrance of the tea bearers. The
servants looked depressed and disappointed. I think they had hoped the
procession might be a weekly affair. Like "Brer Rabbit," I prudently lay
low until my brother's wrath had exhausted itself.
The Burman has the reputation of being a keen sportsman, and certainly,
his excitement is intense on every sporting occasion, especially in
games of strength and skill. But he does not excel in these. His
intentions are doubtless good, but he lacks pluck and determination.
This is especially evident when a loogalay fields for his master at
cricket. He will watch the game with deepest interest, loudly applauding
every hit, and when the ball speeds in his direction his excitement and
pride are unbounded. He runs to meet it with outstretched arms, shouting
wildly, then, as the ball nears him, and the audience hold their
breath, expecting a wonderful catch or piece of fielding, he quietly
steps aside, allows the ball to fly past him, and then trots gently
after it, overtaking it some few yards over the boundary. His fellow
natives view the performance with pride, and yell with admiration when
he finally secures the ball and, carrying it within an easy throwing
distance of the pitch, rolls it gently back to the bowler.
The interest taken by the natives in football is overpowering, and a
spectator has been known to stick a knife into the calf of one of the
most active of the players on the opposing side, who happened to be
standing near the "touch line." A new and unexpected source of danger in
the football field.
The two chief drawbacks to the Burman servant are, firstly, his intense
self-satisfaction and conceit, and secondly, his intolerable
superstition.
It is impossible to find fault with a Burman. He receives all complaints
with a look of such absolute astonishment and reproach that the
complainant is at once disarmed. In his own eyes the Burman can do no
wrong, and if other folk do not entirely concur in this opinion, that is
their misfortune and not his fault. He is always quite pleased with
himself, and regards with a pitying contempt all who are not equally so.
Overpowering superstition is a deeply rooted characteristic of the race,
and I rather suspect, a very convenient one occasionally. The Burman
will do nothing on an unlucky day or hour, and in awaiting the
propitious moment, the duty is frequently left undone altogether. This
is apt to be inconvenient to others, if the duty in question be the
delivery of an important message, or the preparation of dinner. But I
have sometimes wondered whether this particular superstition might not
advantageously be introduced into England, where it would be so
exceedingly useful to the school boy at the end of the holidays, and to
many other folk besides.
In private life the Burman carries his superstition to a ridiculous
extent. No ceremony can take place, no festival be held, the building
of a house cannot even be commenced until the wise man has declared the
hour and place to be propitious.
All sorts of magical contrivances to prevent the entrance of wicked
"nats" and other evil spirits, are erected outside nearly every house
and village, and charms and horoscopes are believed in absolutely by all
save the best educated Burmans.
They are a fickle people. Their lives being uneventful they love to vary
them by constant small changes, and to enliven them by the excitement of
gambling, which is the great vice of the country. We had a Burmese maid
who displayed this love of change to a most astonishing degree. After
being with us about two months she suddenly announced one morning that
she had fever and must go and rest. Accordingly she disappeared for
several days, and when we sent to enquire after her we learnt that she
had recovered from her attack of fever, but was coming back to us no
more, as she had got married. In about a fortnight she reappeared,
saying calmly that she was now tired of being married, and was quite
ready to return to her work after her little change.
Though he strongly objects to work himself the Burman likewise objects
to see anyone else work. Whenever I endeavoured to clean my bicycle, our
loogalays were terribly grieved. They sought me out in the quiet corner
to which I had retired, and stood round me with the most shocked
expressions, waving brooms and dusters, and beseeching me by all their
most expressive gestures to leave the task to them. Sometimes they
embarrassed me so much by all these attentions that I was obliged to
consent, but always felt sorry afterwards; they are not satisfactory
bicycle cleaners. The handle bars they polished again and again, but the
rest of the machine struck them as uninteresting, and they left it
severely alone.
My experience of the Burman was not confined altogether to our own
servants, there were many in the village with whom I had a bowing
acquaintance, but owing to my ignorance of the language I could not
hope to become intimate with them and their families.
They appeared to take a great interest in us and our possessions. Two
little Burmese ladies in particular, wives of the chief men of the
village, paid us constant visits. They would bring us presents of
flowers and vegetables, offer these, and then sit on the floor and stare
resolutely at us for the space of half an hour, at the end of which time
they would suddenly make a profound obeisance and depart.
Conversation was impossible, as neither party knew the other's language,
but we found this silent contemplation so embarrassing, that, after
enduring it twice, we endeavoured on the third visit to entertain them
by showing them pictures, trinkets, or anything we thought might amuse
them. But with no great success; they admired the things and then
immediately returned to their former occupation of staring, until at
last I thought of the piano (which at that time was still in a healthy
condition), opened it, and began to play. That interested them
immensely, as they could not understand whence the sound came. They
would stand happily for any length of time, gingerly striking a note,
and listening to the tone with the greatest wonder and delight.
But what pleased them more than anything was a china doll, belonging to
my little niece, which shut and opened its eyes. Such a marvel had never
been seen before, and the day after our visitors had discovered it, a
large deputation from the village waited upon us, with a request to see
the wonder. As from that time the doll frequently disappeared for a day
or two, we rather suspected the ayah was turning an honest penny, by
borrowing it to hire out for exhibition at various villages round,
whither the rumour of its fame had already spread.
Our visitors took the greatest interest in our garments, and when their
first shyness had worn off, would subject our costumes to a minute
examination that was a little trying.
They always arrayed themselves in their best garments when they came to
see us, and very dainty they looked in their bright dresses of pink,
green, or yellow silk, with flowers and ornaments in their black hair.
The Burmese ladies are deservedly described as charming, and they
understand the art of dress, and blending colours to perfection. They
are reported to be very witty and amusing, as well as charming in
appearance, and certainly when my brother happened to be at home on the
occasion of their visits, they chattered to him very merrily, and seemed
to thoroughly enjoy their talk with an Englishman.
Another visitor of ours was the thugyi, (the head man of the village), a
very fine looking old man with one of the handsomest heads I have ever
seen. He was taller than the majority of Burmans, and in the flowing
white garments which he always wore, presented a splendid picture which
I longed to paint. His manners were stately and dignified, and he
treated us with the most royal courtesy, as though he were an emperor
at least.
The chief hpoongyi (priest) of Remyo was a dear old man, with a
beautifully tender expression. At his invitation we all went to visit
him one day, and he showed us over the kyaung, with its numerous images,
bell, and quaint pictures of saints and devils. He was an enthusiastic
gardener and showed us proudly over his domain, giving us much advice on
the management of plants, and offering to transplant anything we admired
to our own garden. A hpoongyi's life must be very peaceful and happy,
though perhaps a trifle dull. His chief occupation seems to be
meditation, which to us western folk appears distinctly monotonous.
Visits to the native bazaar afford endless amusement. Natives of all
descriptions are gathered there, and the scene is most varied. The
picturesque Burmans, giggling Chinese, chattering Madrassees, stately
Parsees, solemn-faced Shans, and many other nationalities, swarm in the
narrow streets and round the stalls of the bazaar. The stalls are large
platforms raised about three feet from the ground, with overhanging
roofs. The seller sits in the middle of his stall with his wares spread
round him, and keeps up a running flow of conversation the whole day
long.
There never appeared to be much to purchase in the Remyo bazaar except a
few silks and the most unpalatable looking foods, but I delighted to go
there in order to watch the people. "Bazaar day," to the Burman is one
big joke, and he enjoys it thoroughly. The girls wear their most
becoming costumes, and seated in the midst of their lovely silks, form a
picture dainty enough to attract any man's attention. They are charming,
and are quite aware of the fact.
I ventured down once or twice to the bazaar with my camera, but they did
not understand it, and regarded me with suspicion; indeed, the mother of
one little Shan laddie, whose picture I wished to take, worked herself
up into such a state of wrath and terror that I was obliged to desist. I
fancy she thought I was bewitching the poor little fellow.
My private opinion is, that in revenge for my attempt on her son, she
must have induced one of their wise men to curse my kôdak, for though I
took photographs with great vigour and confidence during my travels, not
a single one of them developed. It is a singularly distressing
employment to sit long hours in a stuffy dark room, developing
photographs which steadily refuse to develop. I have met with many sad
experiences in my long and chequered career, but I think this was the
most disappointing.
My one attempt at shopping by gesture in the bazaar was not an
unqualified success. I selected an aged and kindly looking stall keeper,
and proceeded to collect together in a heap the few small articles I
desired to purchase. During this proceeding she watched my actions with
astonishment and some suspicion, but the latter feeling was set at rest
when I produced a rupee and offered it to her. She took it, and while
she sought the change, I pocketed my purchases.
[Illustration: NATIVE BAZAAR AT REMYO]
But when she returned, her face expressed the greatest consternation,
and she burst into a torrent of Burmese. Quite at a loss to understand
her, I hurriedly offered her more money, but she refused it with scorn,
and continued her explanations and entreaties, in which the numerous
spectators of the scene presently joined, laughing as though it were the
greatest joke in the world.
Presently the old lady picked up a bobbin of cotton, such as I had just
bought, and waved it frantically in my face; I mechanically took it and
pocketed it also. At this action on my part the spectators became still
more hilarious, but the old lady looked annoyed, evidently considering
the matter was getting beyond a joke.
At last, in desperation, I pulled out all my purchases and flung them on
the stall. To my astonishment this proved to be precisely what she
desired; the good lady beamed with satisfaction, gathered them together
with her own fair hands, and returned them, and my change, to me with
many bows and smiles. I do not know to this day what was the reason of
her excitement. Judging by the intense amusement it caused the
spectators, I should say the story will serve as a popular after dinner
anecdote for many generations of Burmans.
I do not think anyone but a Burman could find much amusement in their
dearly beloved Pwés. The dances, composed entirely of posturing and
grouping, are most monotonous, and the music is distinctly an unpleasant
noise from a European point of view. Yet these easily satisfied folk
crowd to such entertainments (which occasionally last many days) and
camp out round the temporary building in which they are performed. They
seem to derive the greatest enjoyment from watching these interminable
performances, following the inevitable dramatic "Prince and Princess"
through their adventures, and chuckling over the vulgar jokes of the
clown.
The Burman loves to laugh. He is as equally amused at a fire or a
drowning fatality in real life, as when in the play the clown trips up
a fellow actor.
His proneness to laughter is annoying sometimes, especially if one
misses a drive at golf, or falls down stairs (either of which
misfortunes appear to him very droll) but on the whole his keen
appreciation of "humour" helps him very comfortably through life.
We modern Europeans may think we have a higher sense of humour than
these simple folk; but who is to judge?
The Burman is, perhaps, after all that truest philosopher who finds
latent humour in all things, and makes the most of it--still, I pray
that, for his sake, his keenness of appreciation may not become more
highly developed, or some day he will meet a pun, and it will kill him.