Vigour of the new reign—A magic-lantern performance—Conduct
of the bandmaster—First mention of Mr. Quinton—Visit
to Burmah—Beauty of the scenery—House ourselves in a
Pagoda—Burmese love of flowers, and of smoking—Visit
Tummu—Burmese love of chess—First meeting with Grant—He
helps us to make a cake—Search after orchids—Arrival of
visitors—Important telegram from Chief Commissioner—Coming
events commence to cast shadows.
Early in November I returned from the hills, and went back to Manipur.
Everything seemed changed by the alteration in the government of the
state. There was little doubt that the new Jubraj was practically ruler
of the roost, and the improvement was very great in everything. Roads
that had been almost impassable in the ex-Maharajah’s reign were repaired
and made good enough to drive on. Bridges that had been sadly needed
were erected; some of them on first-class plans, which were calculated
to last three times as long as the flimsy structures which existed
previously. The people seemed happier and more contented, and my husband
found it much easier to work with the Manipur durbar than he had done
when there were eight opinions to be consulted instead of four. There
were no more petty jealousies and quarrels among the princes, and I had
no fears about asking them all at once to any festivity.
At Christmas they all came to a magic-lantern performance. My husband
had got one out from England, and he made the slides himself from
photographs, choosing as subjects groups of Manipuris, or photographs
of the princes and bits of the country. A picture of Miss Maïpâkbi
was greeted with much applause on the part of the Jubraj, who, by the
way, had decided to add this young lady to his other nine wives. The
performance concluded with a large representation of the ex-Maharajah
in royal dress. Dead silence greeted it, and an awkward pause; but my
husband changed the slide almost directly to one of a humorous character,
which caused everyone much amusement.
I mentioned the royal dress in the Maharajah’s photograph. This was worn
only on very great occasions, usually of a sacred nature. It consisted of
a coat and Dhotee made of silk, of a grayish shade, embroidered all over
in purple silk in a fleur-de-lis pattern. No one but a prince could wear
this particular stuff; and if anyone was found with it on, whether in
his house or on the public thoroughfare, he was immediately seized, and
deprived of the garments in question, and everything else he happened to
have on at the same time.
On one occasion the bandmaster expressed a wish to have his photograph
taken, and my husband arranged to do it for him on a certain day. He
arrived with a large bundle, saying that he wished to be allowed to
change his attire in our grounds, as he desired to be taken in the royal
dress, and could not walk from his house to ours without being subjected
to the ignominious treatment I have already described. So he retreated to
the largest tree he could find and retired behind it, where he hastily
attired himself in the coveted robes, adding as extra adornment a cap
of green satin embroidered in gold, shaped like a small tea-cosy, and
curious sorts of pads, also of green satin, on the backs of his hands. He
put a large red flower in his buttonhole, and borrowed my husband’s watch
and chain, as he had none of his own. He looked a very queer character
indeed, but the photograph turned out a great success and filled him with
delight, which increased tenfold when I painted one for him. He divested
himself, after the picture was done, of his fine feathers, and took them
away in the same dirty, unsuspicious-looking bundle in which they had
arrived.
I was sorry to find that this bandmaster had left Manipur when I returned
there. He had gone down to Calcutta with the ex-Maharajah, with whom
he had always been a great favourite, and left the band to the tender
mercies of a havildar, who knew nothing of music.
Early in January of this year, 1891, we went to Kohima to meet the chief
commissioner, Mr. Quinton, and spent a very pleasant four days there. It
was always such a treat to see people. Life in the station at Manipur
was so dreadfully monotonous, but I had been better off than my husband,
who had not seen any white faces for several months. Not that that
troubled him very much. He always adapted himself to whatever er were his
circumstances, and made the best of them, never thinking of, and worrying
himself for, the many things he had not got. But when the opportunity
of getting anyone down to stay with us did arise, he was very keen about
it, and while at Kohima we tried very hard to persuade the chief and his
daughter to come to Manipur; but it could not be managed, as Mr. Quinton
had then arranged his tour, and had not sufficient time to spare to
enable him to come such a long distance out of his way. That journey was
always the difficulty, and had it not been such a lengthy one, people at
Kohima would often have come down to see us at Manipur. But as a rule the
whole of their leave was swamped in coming and going.
From Kohima we went to Tummu, in Burmah, returning first to the Residency
for a few days. This was my first visit to Burmah. My husband had gone
down the year before, but I had been too ill to accompany him, and had
stayed behind. We had lovely weather, and enjoyed the journey there
immensely. The scenery on the way is lovely, and as the forests are not
so dense as those on the Cachar road, one can get magnificent views
of the surrounding country every now and then. Range after range of
mountains rise gloriously around you, as you wend your way among the
leafy glades and shimmering forests which clothe their rugged sides. Cool
and green near you, growing purple as you leave them behind, and becoming
faintly blue as they outline themselves on the far horizon, these
mountains fill you with admiration. Forests of teak rise on each side of
you as you get nearer Tummu, and the heat becomes much greater.
After five days we arrived at our camp, which was situated on the
boundary between Manipur and Burmah, at a place called Mori Thana. Here
we stayed, living in a pagoda, in company with several figures of Buddha
and many other minor deities, indicating that the building was sacred.
The Burmese are very fond of flowers, and they always place vases of
gaily-coloured blossoms in front of their gods, and small punkahs to
keep them cool. The pagoda we were lodged in was built, like all Burmese
houses, on piles, about three feet from the ground. The climate is so
damp that they are obliged to be raised, or the floor of the house would
very soon become rotten. Everything at Tummu was quite different to
Manipur: the women dressed in much gayer colours, and did their hair more
picturesquely in large knobs on the top of their heads, into which they
stuck tiny fans, or flowers, or brightly-coloured beads. All the women
smoke, even the young ones, and one seldom sees them without a cigar in
their mouths. These cigars are made of very mild tobacco, grown in their
own gardens, and dried by themselves. They roll a quantity up tight in
the dried leaf of the Indian corn-plant, and tie the ends round with fine
silk. They are longer and fatter than those smoked in England, and the
Burmese girls at Tummu did not approve at all of some from Belat which
my husband gave them, as they were too strong for them.
The Myouk[13] came out to see us the day after we arrived. He was a
Burman, of course, but spoke English very well indeed, and was most
anxious to be of use to us. He was dressed in silk of the most delicate
shade of pink, with a yellow turban, and he rode in on a charming bay
pony, looking altogether very picturesque. We informed him that we
intended riding into Tummu, so he politely offered to escort us and show
us the way; and he rode back with us, and we found him a very pleasant
companion. I was delighted with Tummu, and we wandered about in the
village, looking at the pagodas, and investing in the curiosities to
be got in the place. We bought some lovely pieces of silk, and some
quaintly-carved wooden chessmen. The Burmese have a game of chess almost
identical with ours—the same number of pieces, and a board marked out in
black and white squares. The rules of the game, too, are almost exactly
the same, but the pieces are named differently, and carved to represent
elephants and pagodas, instead of castles and knights. The Manipuris also
played chess, and I once saw a lovely set of chessmen carved in ivory
and gold that the Maharajah possessed. The ones I got at Tummu at the
time of which I write were made of oak, and were evidently ancient, which
added a charm in my eyes, though the Myouk was very anxious to get a new
set made for me. However, I went on the principle of a bird in the hand
being better than two in the bush, and marched away with my trophies on
the spot. We were returning to our camp for breakfast, when the Myouk
informed us that there was another Sahib living in the place, a military
Sahib of the name of Grant. This was news indeed to us, as we had had
no idea when at Manipur that we had any neighbours nearer than Kohima,
ninety-six miles away from us, and here was someone only sixty-five—quite
a short journey.
My husband said he would go and look the ‘military Sahib’ up, but
before he could do so the Sahib in question had looked us up. I do not
think Mr. Grant, as he then was, ever expected to have a lady sprung on
him unawares, and he seemed a little bothered over his clothes, which
were those generally assumed by bachelors when they are safe from any
possibility of female intrusion in the solitude of a jungle outpost.
However, he soon remedied that. He went away to his bungalow after I
had made him promise that he would come back later; and when he did
return it was in attire worthy of better things than a camp dinner
with camp discomforts. But he was so bright and jolly that he cheered
us both up, and made all the difference during our four days at Tummu.
We went to tea with him in his tiny quarters, and had great jokes
over the ‘army ration’—sugar and butter—and the other etceteras of a
temporary encampment. He was quartered at Tummu in charge of a part of
his regiment, and considering the loneliness of his surroundings and the
distance he was away from any sort of civilization, we marvelled that he
was so cheery and full of spirits.
One day he came out to our camp at Mori Thana and helped me to make a
cake, which turned out afterwards, I am bound honestly to say, burnt to
a cinder. My husband made some cutting allusions to it, and told me that
it would save our having to invest in charcoal for some days to come,
and added many other remarks of the same kind; but, nothing daunted,
Mr. Grant and I set to work and carved up that cake, discovering as
a reward a certain amount in the middle which was quite eatable and
altogether excellent, which my husband also condescended to try after
some persuasion, and pronounced fair.
We were all very keen about orchids, and these grew abundantly on the
trees round about Tummu, so we went for long rambles, and returned always
with armfuls of them.
We were very sorry to bid good-bye to Mr. Grant at the end of our stay in
Burmah, and we tried to persuade him to get leave and come up to us for a
time for some duck-shooting on the Logtak Lake.
On the way back we got the news that we were to have two visitors, Mr.
Melville, the superintendent of the telegraph department in Assam; and
Lieutenant Simpson, of the 43rd Ghoorka Rifles, who had been ordered down
to Manipur from Kohima to inspect some military stores which had been
left behind at the Langthabal cantonment, when the troops went away. We
were very pleased at hearing they were coming, as even the ordinary two
or three visitors who had come every winter on duty in previous years
had failed us. Mr. Melville arrived about ten days after we returned
to Manipur from Tummu, but Mr. Simpson came almost at once. I had known
him well in Shillong, and we had always been great friends. He was very
clever, and a wonderful musician, and nothing pleased him better than
to be allowed to play the piano for hours, whatever he liked, without
interruption. My husband and he soon became good friends. Their tastes
were congenial, and Mr. Simpson was always delighted to shoot with him,
and he got on very well with the princes, especially the Jubraj, who
liked looking at his guns and talking military ‘shop’ with him. Several
shooting-parties were organized by the prince, and the Shikaris always
returned with good bags.
Mr. Melville stayed only three days with us, but he promised to return
for another two on his way back from Tummu, where he was going to inspect
his office. On Sunday, February 21 (the day Mr. Simpson arrived), in
the evening we were surprised by getting a telegram from the Chief
Commissioner, the gist of which was as follows:
‘_I propose to visit Manipur shortly. Have roads and
rest-houses put in order. Further directions and dates to
follow._’
We were electrified! Why was the Chief coming like this suddenly? The
telegram gave no details, and the one and only cause for his unexpected
visit that we could think of was that it had something to do with the
ex-Maharajah. This individual had been, during these months, in Calcutta,
from which place he had concocted and despatched more than one letter
to Government, begging for a reconsideration of his case, and help to
regain the kingdom which he had been unjustly deprived of by the Jubraj,
assisted by my husband’s influence.
Curiosity had naturally been rife at Manipur as to whether the exiled
monarch would be restored by our Government, and the Jubraj and Tongal
General had never ceased asking my husband his opinion about it. We knew
full well that if such a step were contemplated, the fulfilment of it
would be a difficult operation, as we were aware of the bitter feeling
which existed against the ex-Maharajah, and more especially against his
brother, the Pucca Senna. From private sources we had heard that arms,
ammunition, and food were being collected by order of the Jubraj inside
the palace.
This information came to me quite casually one day. We used to employ a
Manipuri Shikari[14] to shoot wild duck for us during the cold weather,
when my husband was not able to get them himself, and I sent for this man
one day, and told him what I wanted him to get for us. He said he was not
able to shoot, as the Jubraj had ordered him, as well as all the other
men in his village, to bring their guns into the palace arsenal, and that
all the villages in the neighbourhood had received similar commands.
I let the man go, and went and repeated the story to my husband, who
remarked that it looked as though preparations were being made to resist
the ex-Maharajah, should he return to Manipur. Of course, on the receipt
of the telegram from the Chief Commissioner, my husband had to inform the
durbar of his approaching visit. Curiosity reached an overwhelming pitch,
and the efforts of the Jubraj and his colleagues to find out what was
going to happen were unceasing. They never quite believed that my husband
was as ignorant as they were themselves about things, and invariably went
away much disturbed. We ourselves were just as curious and longing to
know what was really coming to pass.
In the meanwhile I had arranged to leave for England.
For more than three years our one talk had been of furlough and home, and
now that the date of sailing had been really fixed, it seemed almost
impossible to put it off in order to be at Manipur waiting to see the
results of the Chief’s visit. My husband said, however, that he thought
it would be more prudent if I arranged to go by an earlier steamer,
to be out of danger in the event of anything serious happening, and
consequently all the necessary arrangements were made for my departure.
I couldn’t help feeling that I would rather stay, however, and, as I
said to a friend in writing home, ‘see the fun,’ and my packing did not
progress satisfactorily at all.
Mr. Simpson was very keen to remain at Manipur, too; but all his work was
done there, and there was really no reason for his stopping. He wired
to the colonel of his regiment for permission to remain, and my husband
backed the request up, so eventually the necessary leave was granted,
and he was delighted at the mere idea of a disturbance which might mean
fighting. Of course the sudden alteration in my plans did not escape the
notice of the Jubraj, and in fact the durbar itself. It seemed as though
the whole State was on the _qui vive_, to discover any slight clue to the
mystery which surrounded the visit of the Chief Commissioner. My sudden
determination to depart was looked upon as possessing a very serious
meaning indeed. I was flying from danger. This was the prevailing idea,
and the Tongal General asked me point blank one day whether it was the
case or not, at the same time begging me to put off going till after the
Chief had left Manipur. The princes used every persuasion they could to
induce me to remain, and they and the old general came more than once
with messages from the Maharajah to the same effect. We explained to them
that my passage was taken and paid for in the steamer, and that the money
would be forfeited if I failed to sail on a certain date; but this had no
weight, and they did not seem to like my going away at all, and begged me
to stay on. These persuasions, added to my husband’s extreme reluctance
to let me go, and my own wish to remain, carried the day.
About ten days before Mr. Quinton arrived we heard for certain that the
object of his visit was _not_ the restoration of the ex-Maharajah, and
so, after much coaxing from me, my husband, thinking of course that no
danger could now be possible, allowed me to stay. I remember so well
how lightly we talked over coming events, and my husband saying that if
anything did happen, they would make me a nice safe place in one of the
cellars under the house. Could we but foresee what is behind the dark
veil with which the future is enveloped, and know that sometimes in our
idlest moments we are standing as it were on the brink of a grave, is
there one of us who would not rather die at once than struggle on into
the abyss of desolation and death awaiting us in the near future? And
yet it is undoubtedly a merciful Providence that orders our comings and
goings from day to day in such a manner that we cannot peer into the mist
of approaching years, and discover for ourselves what fate awaits each
one of us. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’