DIVORCE
'They are to each other as a burning poison falling into a man's
eye.'--_Burmese saying._
I remember a night not so long ago; it was in the hot weather, and I was
out in camp with my friend the police-officer. It was past sunset, and
the air beneath the trees was full of luminous gloom, though overhead a
flush still lingered on the cheek of the night. We were sitting in the
veranda of a Government rest-house, enjoying the first coolness of the
coming night, and talking in disjointed sentences of many things; and
there came up the steps of the house into the veranda a woman. She came
forward slowly, and then sat down on the floor beside my friend, and
began to speak. There was a lamp burning in an inner room, and a long
bar of light came through the door and lit her face. I could see she was
not good-looking, but that her eyes were full of tears, and her face
drawn with trouble. I recognised who she was, the wife of the
head-constable in charge of the guard near by, a woman I had noticed
once or twice in the guard.
She spoke so fast, so fast; the words fell over each other as they came
from her lips, for her heart was very full.
I sat quite still and said nothing; I think she hardly noticed I was
there. It was all about her husband. Everything was wrong; all had gone
crooked in their lives, and she did not know what she could do. At first
she could hardly tell what it was all about, but at last she explained.
For some years, three or four years, matters had not been very smooth
between them. They had quarrelled often, she said, about this thing and
the other, little things mostly; and gradually the rift had widened till
it became very broad indeed.
'Perhaps,' she said, 'if I had been able to have a child it would have
been different.' But fate was unkind and no baby came, and her husband
became more and more angry with her. 'And yet I did all for the best,
thakin; I always tried to act for the best. My husband has sisters at
Henzada, and they write to him now and then, and say, "Send ten rupees,"
or "Send five rupees," or even twenty rupees. And I always say, "Send,
send." Other wives would say, "No, we cannot afford it;" but I said
always, "Send, send." I have always done for the best, always for the
best.'
It was very pitiable to hear her opening her whole heart, such a sore
troubled heart, like this. Her words were full of pathos; her uncomely
face was not beautified by the sorrow in it. And at last her husband
took a second wife.
'She is a girl from a village near; the thakin knows, Taungywa. He did
not tell me, but I soon heard of it; and although I thought my heart
would break, I did not say anything. I told my husband, "Bring her here,
let us live all together; it will be best so." I always did for the
best, thakin. So he brought her, and she came to live with us a week
ago. Ah, thakin, I did not know! She tramples on me. My head is under
her feet. My husband does not care for me, only for her. And to-day,
this evening, they went out together for a walk, and my husband took
with him the concertina. As they went I could hear him play upon it, and
they walked down through the trees, he playing and she leaning upon him.
I heard the music.'
Then she began to cry bitterly, sobbing as if her heart would break. The
sunset died out of the sky, and the shadows took all the world and made
it gray and dark. No one said anything, only the woman cried.
'Thakin,' she said at last, 'what am I to do? Tell me.'
Then my friend spoke.
'You can divorce him,' he said; 'you can go to the elders and get a
divorce. Won't that be best?'
'But, thakin, you do not know. We are both Christians; we are married
for ever. We were both at the mission-school in Rangoon, and we were
married there, "for ever and for ever," so the padre said. We are not
married according to Burmese customs, but according to your religion; we
are husband and wife for ever.'
My friend said nothing. It seemed to him useless to speak to her of the
High Court, five hundred miles away, and a decree nisi; it would have
been a mockery of her trouble.
'Your husband had no right to take a second wife, if you are Christians
and married,' he said.
'Ah,' she answered, 'we are Burmans; it is allowed by Burmese law. Other
officials do it. What does my husband care that we were married by your
law? Here we are alone with no other Christians near. But I would not
mind so much,' she went on, 'only she treads me under her feet. And he
takes her out and not me, who am the elder wife, and he plays music to
her; and I did all for the best. This trouble has come upon me, though
all my life I have acted for the best.'
There came another footstep up the stair, and a man entered. It was her
husband. On his return he had missed his wife, and guessed whither she
had gone, and had followed her. He came alone.
Then there was a sad scene, only restrained by respect for my friend. I
need not tell it. There was a man's side to the question, a strong one.
The wife had a terrible temper, a peevish, nagging, maddening fashion
of talking. She was a woman very hard for a man to live with.
Does it matter much which was right or wrong, now that the mischief was
done? They went away at last, not reconciled. Could they be reconciled?
I cannot tell. I left there next day, and have never returned.
There they had lived for many years among their own people, far away
from the influence that had come upon their childhood, and led them into
strange ways. And now all that was left of that influence was the chain
that bound them together. Had it not been for that they would have been
divorced long ago; for they had never agreed very well, and both sides
had bitter grounds for complaint. They would have been divorced, and
both could have gone their own way. But now, what was to be done?
That is one of my memories: this is another.
There was a girl I knew, the daughter of a man who had made some money
by trading, and when the father died the property was divided according
to law between the girl and her brother. She was a little heiress in her
way, owning a garden, where grew many fruit-trees, and a piece of rice
land. She had also a share in a little shop which she managed, and she
had many gold bracelets and fine diamond earrings. She was much wooed by
the young men about there, and at last she married. He was a young man,
good-looking, a sergeant of police, and for a time they were very
happy. And then trouble came. The husband took to bad ways. The
knowledge that he could get money for nothing was too much for him. He
drank and he wasted her money, and he neglected his work, and at last he
was dismissed from Government employ. And his wife got angry with him,
and complained of him to the neighbours; and made him worse, though she
was at heart a good girl. Quickly he went from bad to worse, until in a
very short time, six months, I think, he had spent half her little
fortune. Then she began to limit supplies--the husband did no work at
all--and in consequence he began to neglect her; they had many quarrels,
and her tongue was sharp, and matters got worse and worse until they
were the talk of the village. All attempts of the headman and elders to
restrain him were useless. He became quarrelsome, and went on from one
thing to another, until at last he was suspected of being concerned in a
crime. So then when all means had failed to restore her husband to her,
when they had drifted far apart and there was nothing before them but
trouble, she went to the elders of the village and demanded a divorce.
And the elders granted it to her. Her husband objected; he did not want
to be divorced. He claimed this, and he claimed that, but it was all of
no use. So the tie that had united them was dissolved, as the love had
been dissolved long before, and they parted. The man went away to Lower
Burma. They tell me he has become a cultivator and has reformed, and is
doing well; and the girl is ready to marry again. Half her property is
gone, but half remains, and she has still her little business. I think
they will both do well. But if they had been chained together, what
then?
In Burma divorce is free. Anyone can obtain it by appearing before the
elders of the village and demanding it. A writing of divorcement is made
out, and the parties are free. Each retains his or her own property, and
that earned during marriage is divided; only that the party claiming the
divorce has to leave the house to the other--that is the only penalty,
and it is not always enforced, unless the house be joint property.
As religion has nothing to do with marriage, neither has it with
divorce. Marriage is a status, a partnership, nothing more. But it is
all that. Divorce is a dissolution of that partnership. A Burman would
not ask, 'Were they married?' but, 'Are they man and wife?' And so with
divorce, it is a cessation of the state of marriage.
Elders tell me that women ask for divorce far more than men do. 'Men
have patience, and women have not,' that is what they say. For every
little quarrel a woman will want a divorce. 'Thakin, if we were to grant
divorces every time a woman came and demanded it, we should be doing
nothing else all day long. If a husband comes home to find dinner not
cooked, and speaks angrily, his wife will rush to us in tears for a
divorce. If he speaks to another woman and smiles, if he does not give
his wife a new dress, if he be fond of going out in the evenings, all
these are reasons for a breathless demand for a divorce. The wives get
cross and run to us and cry, "My husband has been angry with me. Never
will I live with him again. Give me a divorce." Or, "See my clothes, how
old they are. I cannot buy any new dress. I will have a divorce." And we
say, "Yes, yes; it is very sad. Of course, you must have a divorce; but
we cannot give you one to-night. Go away, and come again in three days
or in four days, when we have more time." They go away, thakin, and they
do not return. Next day it is all forgotten. You see, they don't know
what they want; they turn with the wind--they have no patience.'
Yet sometimes they repent too late. Here is another of my memories about
divorce:
There was a man and his wife, cultivators, living in a small village.
The land that he cultivated belonged to his wife, for she had inherited
it from her father, together with a house and a little money. The man
had nothing when he married her, but he was hardworking and honest and
good-tempered, and they kept themselves going comfortably enough. But he
had one fault: every now and then he would drink too much. This was in
Lower Burma, where liquor shops are free to Burmans. In Upper Burma no
liquor can be sold to them. He did not drink often. He was a teetotaler
generally; but once a month, or once in two months, he would meet some
friends, and they would drink in good fellowship, and he would return
home drunk. His wife felt this very bitterly, and when he would come
into the house, his eyes red and his face swollen, she would attack him
with bitter words, as women do. She would upbraid him for his conduct,
she would point at him the finger of scorn, she would tell him in biting
words that he was drinking the produce of her fields, of her
inheritance; she would even impute to him, in her passion, worse things
than these, things that were not true. And the husband was usually
good-natured, and admitted his wrong, and put up with all her abuse, and
they lived more or less happily till the next time.
And after this had been going on for a few years, instead of getting
accustomed to her husband, instead of seeing that if he had this fault
he had many virtues, and that he was just as good a husband as she was a
wife, or perhaps better, her anger against him increased every time,
till now she would declare that she would abide it no longer, that he
was past endurance, and she would have a divorce; and several times she
even ran to the elders to demand it. But the elders would put it by.
'Let it wait,' they said, 'for a few days, and then we will see;' and by
that time all was soothed down again. But at last the end came. One
night she passed all bounds in her anger, using words that could never
be forgiven; and when she declared as usual that she must have a
divorce, her husband said: 'Yes, we will divorce. Let there be an end of
it.' And so next day they went to the elders both of them, and as both
demanded the divorce, the elders could not delay very long. A few days'
delay they made, but the man was firm, and at last it was done. They
were divorced. I think the woman would have drawn back at the last
moment, but she could not, for very shame, and the man never wavered. He
was offended past forgiveness.
So the divorce was given, and the man left the house and went to live
elsewhere.
In a few days--a very few days--the wife sent for him again. 'Would he
return?' And he refused. Then she went to the headman and asked him to
make it up, and the headman sent for the husband, who came.
The woman asked her husband to return.
'Come back,' she said, 'come back. I have been wrong. Let us forgive. It
shall never happen again.'
But the man shook his head.
'No,' he said; 'a divorce is a divorce. I do not care to marry and
divorce once a week. You were always saying "I will divorce you, I will
divorce you." Now it is done. Let it remain.'
The woman was struck with grief.
'But I did not know,' she said; 'I was hot-tempered. I was foolish. But
now I know. Ah! the house is so lonely! I have but two ears, I have but
two eyes, and the house is so large.'
But the husband refused again.
'What is done, is done. Marriage is not to be taken off and put on like
a jacket. I have made up my mind.'
Then he went away, and after a little the woman went away too. She went
straight to the big, lonely house, and there she hanged herself.
You see, she loved him all the time, but did not know till too late.
Men do not often apply for divorce except for very good cause, and with
their minds fully made up to obtain it. They do obtain it, of course.
With this facility for divorce, it is remarkable how uncommon it is. In
the villages and amongst respectable Burmans in all classes of life it
is a great exception to divorce or to be divorced. The only class
amongst whom it is at all common is the class of hangers-on to our
Administration, the clerks and policemen, and so on. I fear there is
little that is good to be said of many of them. It is terrible to see
how demoralizing our contact is to all sorts and conditions of men. To
be attached to our Administration is almost a stigma of
disreputableness. I remember remarking once to a headman that a certain
official seemed to be quite regardless of public opinion in his life,
and asked him if the villagers did not condemn him. And the headman
answered with surprise: 'But he is an official;' as if officials were
quite _super grammaticam_ of morals.
And yet this is the class from whom we most of us obtain our knowledge
of Burmese life, whom we see most of, whose opinions we accept as
reflecting the truth of Burmese thought. No wonder we are so often
astray.
Amongst these, the taking of second, and even third, wives is not at all
uncommon, and naturally divorce often follows. Among the great mass of
the people it is very uncommon. I cannot give any figures. There are no
records kept of marriage or of divorce. What the proportion is it is
impossible to even guess. I have heard all sorts of estimates, none
founded on more than imagination. I have even tried to find out in small
villages what the number of divorces were in a year, and tried to
estimate from this the percentage. I made it from 2 to 5 per cent. of
the marriages. But I cannot offer these figures as correct for any large
area. Probably they vary from place to place and from year to year. In
the old time the queen was very strict upon the point. As she would
allow no other wife to her king, so she would allow no taking of other
wives, no abuse of divorce among her subjects. Whatever her influence
may have been in other ways, here it was all for good. But the queen has
gone, and there is no one left at all. No one but the hangers-on of whom
I have spoken, examples not to be followed, but to be shunned.
But of this there is no manner of doubt, that this freedom of marriage
and divorce leads to no license. There is no confusion between marriage
or non-marriage, and even yet public opinion is a very great check upon
divorce. It is considered not right to divorce your husband or your wife
without good--very good and sufficient cause. And what is good and
sufficient cause is very well understood. That a woman should have a
nagging tongue, that a man should be a drunkard, what could be better
cause than this? The gravity of the offence lies in whether it makes
life unbearable together, not in the name you may give it.
The facility for divorce has other effects too. It makes a man and a
woman very careful in their behaviour to each other. The chain that
binds them is a chain of mutual forbearance, of mutual endurance, of
mutual love; and if these be broken, then is the bond gone. Marriage is
no fetter about a man or woman, binding both to that which they may get
to hate.
In the first Burmese war in 1825 there was a man, an Englishman, taken
prisoner in Ava and put in prison, and there he found certain Europeans
and Americans. After a time, for fear of attempts at escape, these
prisoners were chained together two and two. He tells you, this
Englishman, how terrible this was, and of the hate and repulsion that
arose in your heart to your co-bondsman. Before they were chained
together they lived in close neighbourhood, in peace and amity; but
when the chains came it was far otherwise, though they were no nearer
than before. They got to hate each other.
And this is the Burmese idea of marriage, that it is a partnership of
love and affection, and that when these die, all should be over. An
unbreakable marriage appears to them as a fetter, a bond, something
hateful and hate inspiring. They are a people who love to be free: they
hate bonds and dogmas of every description. It is always religion that
has made a bond of marriage, and here religion has not interfered.
Theirs is a religion of free men and free women.