A BURMESE HOSTESS
Early in the same afternoon the _Blankshire_ picked up her pilot at
Elephant Point and entered the famous Irrawaddy. Long before her
destination was in sight, twenty miles from the sea, the glorious Shwe
Dagon, a shining golden object, towered into view, flashing in the
sunlight against a background of impenetrable woods.
Rangoon, on a river navigable for nine hundred miles, is a large and
important seaport and, as the wealth of one of the richest countries
filters through its ports, naturally the approach is thronged with
shipping. Our incoming liner met or overtook cargo steamers, tank
ships, battered tramps and heavily laden wind-jammers in the tow of
straining tugs, not to mention steam-launches, barges and swarms of the
local _sampan_, or small boat.
At the wharf where, amidst deafening yells and hoarse shoutings, the
_Blankshire_ crept to her berth, crowds of different races—brown,
black, yellow and white—awaited the English mail. Passengers were
eagerly claimed by their friends and hurried away to motors and
carriages; all was excitement and bustle. Alas! ’board-ship friendships
soon evaporate, and presently Shafto found himself standing on the
aft-deck with his gun-case and cabin luggage, deserted and
forgotten—no, for here came Hoskins, the police officer, hot and
breathless.
“I say, look here, old chap!” he panted, “I’m just off to catch my
train to Tonghoo, but I’ve had a word with FitzGerald; it will be all
right about the chummery; they can take you in on Monday. I see Salter
on board, one of the head assistants in Gregory’s; I expect he has come
to meet you. Well, I must run; so long!”
This good-natured fellow passenger was immediately succeeded by a cabin
steward. “Been looking for you everywhere, sir,” he said; “there’s a
gentleman come aboard asking for you.” As he concluded, a spare,
middle-aged man wearing a large topee and a dust-coloured suit
approached and said:
“Mr. Shafto, I believe?” and offered a welcoming hand.
“Yes,” assented the new arrival.
“I’m Salter from Gregory’s. Manders, the head assistant, asked me to
meet you. I’ll be glad to help you get your things ashore and take you
to the Strand Hotel, where I have booked you a room.”
“That is most awfully good of you,” replied Shafto. “On Monday I
believe I am to get quarters in a chummery.”
“Ah, so you are settled, I see. Now, if you will show me your baggage,
I have a couple of coolies here with a cart and a taxi for ourselves.”
Mr. Salter proved to be remarkably prompt in his measures, and in less
than ten minutes Shafto found himself following his flat narrow back
down the steep gangway and setting his foot for the first time on the
soil of Burma. He halted for a moment to look about. Here was a
landmark in his life, a new sphere lay before him; the street was
humming and alive with people, and he stared at the jostling, motley
crowd of British, Burmese, Chinese, mostly a gaily-clad ever-changing
multitude. Among them were shaven priests in yellow robes. Shans in
flapping hats; right in front of him stood a stalwart Burman, wearing a
white jacket, a pink silk handkerchief, twisted jauntily around his
bullet head, and a yellow Lungi, girded to the knee, displayed a
three-tailed cat tattooed on the back of each substantial calf.
And what a curious, soft and penetrating atmosphere; moist and loaded
with unfamiliar, aromatic odours!
However, Mr. Salter, a man of action, had no time to spare for
contemplation, and briskly hustled the stranger into a waiting taxi—for
the old days of the rattling, shattered _gharry_ are numbered.
“I suppose this is all new to you?” said Shafto’s acquaintance as they
struggled up the crowded Strand, lined with imposing offices and vast
_godowns_, or warehouses.
“You may say so,” he replied, eagerly gazing at the dense passing
throng—animated women with flower-decked hair, square-shouldered,
sauntering men, carrying flat umbrellas and smoking huge cheroots,
Khaki-clad Tommies and yellow-faced John Chinamen.
“Oh, there’s lots to see in Burma,” continued Salter, “an extraordinary
mixture of people and races, and a most beautiful country; such
splendid rivers and forests—but here, in Rangoon, everyone has but one
idea.”
In answer to Shafto’s glance of interrogation he said:
“We are a commercial community, and our sole aim and object is to work,
to get rich, and go home.”
“But that doesn’t apply to the native?”
“No, the Burman does not work; he is merely a spectator. The industry
of others amuses him; his chief object is to enjoy life. Well, here is
the hotel; let us go in and have a look at your quarters.”
After the baggage had been disposed of and Shafto’s room inspected and
criticised, his companion still lingered talking. To Salter, the
proverbially eccentric, this new-comer appeared to be an intelligent
young fellow whom he would like and take to. There was no superior
“just out from London to the back of God-speed” air about him. On the
contrary, he appeared to be genuinely interested in his surroundings
and insatiable for information. It struck him, too, that the forlorn
stranger would put in a mighty dull and solitary evening and, stirred
by a benevolent impulse, he said:
“Suppose you come back and dine at my diggings? I may be able to give
you a few hints as I am an old hand.”
“I should be delighted,” assented Shafto, “if it won’t be putting you
out?”
“Oh no, not a bit; Mrs. Salter is accustomed to my bringing home a
stray guest.”
“Had I not better dress?”
“Certainly not; come along with me now, just as you are.”
Thus the matter being arranged, the pair once more entered the taxi,
and were presently steering through the traffic of various
thoroughfares and teeming bazaars. All at once, with an unexpected
lurch, the car turned into a wide, well-shaded enclosure and halted
before a low, heavily-roofed house, supported on stout wooden legs—an
old-time residence.
“Do you go up,” urged Shako’s host, “whilst I pay the taxi—you can
settle with me later.” Here spoke the canny Yorkshire tyke.
Shafto, as requested, climbed the stairs leading up to a wide veranda,
on which opened a sitting-room, lined with teak wood and lighted by
long glass doors. Here he was confronted by a little Burmese woman with
a beaming face. She wore a short white jacket, an extraordinarily tight
satin petticoat, or, _tamain_ of wonderful butterfly colours, enormous
gold ear-rings, and a flower stuck coquettishly behind her left ear. At
first he supposed her to be a picturesque attendant, but when she
extended a tiny hand loaded with rings and murmured “Pleased to see
you!” he realised that he was addressed by the mistress of the house.
“This is my wife,” announced Salter as he entered. “Mee Lay, here’s Mr.
Shafto, one of our new assistants, just out from England; I hope you
can give him a good dinner?”
“Oh yes, it will be all right,” and once more she beamed upon her
guest, “I will go and see about it now.”
And in spite of her tight skirt, Mee Lay glided out of the room with an
air of surpassing grace.
“I dare say you are surprised to see that Mrs. Salter is of _this
country_,” said her husband, as he sank into a chair; “but it is by no
means an uncommon match here. Burmese women are very good-humoured and
capable; they make capital wives, and there is no denying the
fascination of the Burmese girl—always so piquant and smiling and
dainty. They have also a wonderful capacity for business and
money-making, and a real hunger for land; some of the best plots in and
about Rangoon have been picked up by these shrewd little creatures. The
men-folk, on the other hand, are incurably lazy. They loaf, gamble and
amuse themselves and leave their women-kind to trade, or to weave silks
and manufacture cheroots; numbers of them are in business. Mee Lay, my
wife, owns and runs a good-sized rice mill; and if you were to look
into the back compound you would see it entirely surrounded by her
matted paddy-bins, biding a rise in the market.”
A yet further surprise awaited Shafto, in the shape of a little sallow
girl, with clouds of crimped golden hair, beautifully dressed in
European style, in a white embroidered frock and wide silk sash.
Rosetta had inherited the high cheek-bones and short nose of her
mother’s race, the blue eyes and firm jaw of her Yorkshire parent. On
the whole, she was an attractive child.
Miss Rosetta Salter received the strange gentleman with overpowering
condescension, and spoke English in a thin, squeaky voice. In a
flatteringly short time she had descended from her high horse, and
accepted Shafto as a friend, revealed her age (eight years) and told
him all about her French doll and her new brown boots—also from Paris.
The dinner, which was announced directly after the return of Mrs.
Salter, proved to be excellent, well cooked and a novelty. For the
first time Shafto tasted real curry, also mango fool. The appointments
were exclusively European, with the exception of a massive silver bowl,
filled with purple orchids, which adorned the centre of the table. Two
snowy-clad Madras servants waited with silent dexterity and
conversation never flagged. Salter discoursed of chummeries and the
_Blankshire_ passengers, and Mrs. Salter thoughtfully prepared the new
arrival for the alarming insects of Lower Burma, whilst Rosetta, for
her part, kept up an accompaniment on a high chirruping note.
During a momentary pause Shafto was startled by an odd sound—an
imperious, unnatural voice that called, “Tucktoo! Tucktoo! Tucktoo!”
“What is it—or _who_ is it?” he inquired anxiously.
“Oh, it’s only a large lizard that lives under the eaves,” explained
Salter, “one of our specialities. In the rains, when he is in good
voice, he is deafening.”
“He brings good and bad luck,” added Mrs. Salter. “Oh, yes, that is
so,” and she flipped the air with her two first fingers, a favourite
gesture among Burmese women.
“How do you mean luck?” Shafto asked.
“If he gives seven ‘Tucktoos’ without stopping, that is luck—great big
luck—but if he goes on, he brings trouble.”
“Only if he stops at an odd number,” corrected the child.
“I see you know all about it,” remarked the guest.
“Oh, yes, our Tucktoo never goes beyond seven—I think he is old—and
mother says the _nats_ are kind to us.”
“The cats are kind to you!” ejaculated Shafto. “But why not?”
“No, no,” hastily broke in Salter, “nats are spirits, good spirits or
bad, who live in the trees; you will hear enough about them before you
are a month in Burma. Their worship is the national faith.”
“But I thought Buddhism——” began Shafto, and hesitated.
“Oh, yes, ostensibly and ostentatiously, but wait and see.”
“I am a Catholic,” announced the child abruptly.
She was excessively self-conscious and anxious to show off before
Shafto.
“Are you really?” he said with an incredulous smile.
“Oh, yes, I attend the convent school; I am learning French and
dancing, I go to mass; mother goes to the pagoda festivals—mother is a
heathen.”
“Rosetta! Mind what you are saying,” sharply interposed Salter; “your
mother’s no more a heathen than yourself.”
“Rosetta is a nasty little girl,” said Mrs. Salter, rising, “she
forgets herself before company, and must go away to be——”
A succession of shrieks interrupted the verdict.
“Oh, do forgive her, please!” implored Shafto; “I ask it as a favour, a
special favour.”
Meanwhile Rosetta clung to her mother apostrophising her in an unknown
tongue, then with piercing screams, entirely regardless of her
beautiful clean frock, she flung herself flat upon the floor.
If Shafto had been inclined to meditation, he might have reflected on
the future of the offspring of two such divergent countries as the West
Riding of Yorkshire and Pegu. At one moment the prim, well-mannered
English girl; the next, an impulsive, emotional daughter of the Far
East. When she grew to woman’s estate, which of the races would
predominate?
Meanwhile, as Rosetta lay prone and kicking upon the _dhurri_, her
father murmured apologetically:
“When the lassie is a bit over-fired and excited, she doesn’t know what
she is saying.”
Mee Lay raised her struggling offspring, was about to bear her away and
give her “Tap Tap,” when again Shafto interposed:
“Oh, I say, do forgive her this time, please, Mrs. Salter. This is my
first day in Rangoon—and I ask it as a particular favour.”
Mee Lay, an adoring parent, was by no means reluctant to grant his
petition, and when the tearful culprit was released and set down, she
turned to Shafto and said in her piping treble:
“Thank you, nice gentleman, but she would not have hurt me much. It was
not I who said mother was a heathen savage, but Ethel Lucas, and I
slapped her, so I did—and Sister gave me a bad mark. I, too, go to the
pagoda festivals and like them awfully much. There are bells and beads,
and flowers and priests, the same as in the convent.”
“Now that peace has been declared, Rosetta, here is a chocolate,” said
her father, “and you can go to bed. Shafto, we will adjourn into the
veranda to smoke, watch the rising moon, and listen to the hum of the
bazaar—a new sound for your ears!”
In a few minutes both were extended in comfortable, long cane chairs,
no doubt experiencing an agreeable sense of _bien être_. The outlook,
with its heavy foliage, was restful to the eye, and the air was charged
with a spicy warmth.
Presently Salter began: “On Monday you are due at the office to report
yourself. You need not be scared at the Head, although he has a stiff,
discouraging sort of manner, and they say that, like the east wind, he
finds out all your weak points in the twinkling of an eye! He is just
and impartial, and no man is more respected in the whole of Burma than
George Gregory. I suppose you know that Gregory’s is one of the
oldest-established houses here?”
Shafto nodded; he had learned this fact on board ship.
“We do a great trade and employ a number of young fellows, mostly from
public schools and universities. One or two other firms do not engage
gentlemen—for reasons that, perhaps, you may guess. Out of business
hours our house keeps a sharp eye on their employés. A young chap can
get into any amount of mischief in Rangoon—Rangoon is full of
temptations.”
“Oh, is it?” muttered Shafto indifferently—what could its temptations
offer in comparison to London?
“Anyhow it seems a huge, stirring sort of place,” he added, as he
watched motors, bicycles, and _gharries_ whirring past the entrance.
“Stirring! Why you may say so—it’s humming like a hive day and night.
There are so many taps to turn in this wealthy country—timber, rice,
wolfram, jade, tin, oil, rubies. A man with a little capital, if he
does not lose his head, can make a fortune in ten years, especially in
paddy. Our particular trade is teak and paddy—that’s rice, you know. I
expect your work will be on the wharf and pretty heavy at first.”
“Well, anyway, it’s an open-air job.”
“Yes, you have the pull now; this is our cold season—October to March;
but the hot weather is no joke; as for the rains, you might as well
live in a steam laundry; we get a hundred inches here in Lower Burma.”
“A hundred inches!” echoed Shafto, “you are not serious?”
“Yes; it pours down as if the sea were overhead, and goes on steadily
for days. Frogs flop round and round your room, and you can almost hear
the trees growing. In the rains the forests are a wonderful sight, such
dense masses of foliage and flowers. Can you imagine great trees
entirely covered with exquisite blooms, and garlands of pink and lilac
creepers interlacing the jungle?”
“How gorgeous! Perhaps I may see all this some day,” said Shafto,
“after I have explored Rangoon itself.”
“Well, I hope you may,” assented his companion, “and now I want to ask
you a strange question.”
“All right—ask away!”
“You have only been a few hours on shore, and I am curious to know if
you have received any impression of the place and people—you know,
first impressions go a long way!”
“Yes. Although I have only just rattled through the streets and along
the Strand, the impression I gathered is that the Burmese appear to be
an amazingly happy crew, with no thought for the morrow; they were all
laughing and chattering as if life was a splendid joke and they enjoyed
it thoroughly. The _joie de vivre_ simply hits me in the eye!”
“I can explain all that,” said Salter, putting down his cheroot and
sitting forward in his long chair. “The Burman has no fear of death,
but proclaims an intense consciousness that it is a mere passing over
to another existence—one of a chain of many future lives—and I think I
may say that this belief is universal. They also declare that a man’s
present life is absolutely controlled by the influence of past good or
bad deeds, and that in the next world they may possibly be better off
than they are in this. Although a Burman gives alms, worships at the
pagoda on appointed days, and repeats the doxology he has learnt at
school, he governs his life by the _nats_—spirits of the air, the
forests, streams, and home, who must be propitiated.”
“I never heard of these _nats_ until now,” said Shafto.
“No; but, as I have said before, you will hear a good deal about them
here, especially if you mix with the Burmans.”
“I certainly hope I shall see something of the people of the country.”
“You will find them interesting; a full-blooded, pleasure-loving race;
they’ve curious, original ideas, drawn from their ancient and sacred
books, and an amazingly generous notion of time. For instance, they
talk glibly of worlds a hundred thousand years old, and believe that
this very planet has been destroyed no fewer than sixty-five
times—chiefly by fire, on ten occasions by water, and once by wind!
According to them, as in the New Testament, ‘a thousand years are but
as yesterday.’ And yet they do not acknowledge the existence of a
Supreme Being—the highest glory is annihilation.”
At this moment a light little figure flitted up the stairs, leaving an
impression of slender elegance and satin skirt.
“Ah, there goes Ma Chit, my wife’s cousin!” explained Salter.
“And I must be taking my departure,” said Shafto rising. “What you have
been telling me is extraordinarily interesting, and I would gladly sit
on for hours, but it is ten o’clock.”
“Yes, and we workers are early birds. I hope you will come and see us
again. I have been twenty years in the country and I can tell you many
a curious tale. To-morrow will be Sunday and, if you like, I will call
round and take you to do a bit of sightseeing—the Pagoda and the
lakes.”
“I should enjoy it of all things; perhaps you will have tiffin with me
at the hotel?”
“No, you must come to us; twelve o’clock sharp, and afterwards we’ll
make a start.”
“Then I’ll just go in and say good-bye to Mrs. Salter.”
When they entered the sitting-room, where lamps had been lighted, they
found the lady of the house in an ecstasy of admiration, gesticulating
with her tiny brown hands, as she gloated over a length of rose and
silver brocade. Standing beside her was the proud owner of this
magnificence; a slim, graceful girl, wearing heavy gold ornaments and
flowers in her hair, and, in spite of an extravagant use of pearl
powder, undeniably pretty. Her slanting eyes were long-lashed and
expressive, and her little mocking mouth wore a bewitching smile.
“Look at my _tamain_, Papa Salter!” she cried; “a piece of the best
satin, just enough for a skirt—one yard and a half; Herr Bernhard
brought it to me from England.”
“Splendid indeed, Ma Chit,” he replied; “you will cut them all out at
the big festival and the _Pwes_. Mee Lay, Mr. Shafto wishes to say
‘good night’!”
Mee Lay took a somewhat preoccupied leave of her guest, her eyes and
attention being riveted upon the gorgeous material in her hand; but Ma
Chit accorded the young man a gay salutation and a splendid view of her
beautiful white teeth.
Salter accompanied his guest to the entrance gate, giving him careful
directions as to the whereabouts of his hotel. It was an exquisite
starlight night; the roar of the bazaar, the clang of the trams, and
the whistling of launches were in the distance; the compound itself was
so still that the sudden thud of a fallen jack-fruit made quite a
startling sound. As the men exchanged last words, their attention was
arrested by a charming tableau in the lighted sitting-room; two figures
were outlined in strong relief against the dark teak walls, both
absorbed in conversation. Ma Chit presented a particularly attractive
picture, with her rose-crowned head, graceful posture, and waving
hands; even as they gazed, her rippling laugh drifted seductively
towards them.
“In this country, great is the tyranny of Temptation, and _there_ is
one of the temptations,” gravely announced Salter; “Rangoon is full of
these fascinating _chits_, who have no morals, but are witty,
good-tempered and gay. Ma Chit—the name means ‘my love’—is said to be
irresistible and the prettiest girl in the province; she is Bernhard’s
housekeeper.”
“His housekeeper!” repeated Shafto; “why, he told me he lived at the
German Club!”
“That may be; but he has a fine house in Kokine. It is not an uncommon
situation—that sort of temporary marriage. Ma Chit looks after his
interests, rules his household, and makes him comfortable; her people
acquiesce. All marriages are easily arranged and easily dissolved among
the Burmans. A young man may offer sweets, serenade a girl a few times;
if he is acceptable, there’s a family dinner, with much chewing of
betel nut, and that constitutes the ceremony!”
“What a happy-go-lucky country!” exclaimed Shafto.
“Happy, yes! Lucky, I’m not sure! Well now, don’t lose your way; first
turn to the right, second to the left, and there is the Strand. Good
night!”