AT THE PLAY
Theatrical performances are the chief entertainment in Burma; the
Burmese as a nation delight in plays—operatic, tragic, opera bouffe and
ballets, such as the “Han Pwe,” when a number of young girls, all
dressed as royalties, posture and dance with extreme grace; and as
their training is perfect, the entertainment evokes unqualified
applause. So interested and absorbed do the audience become in long
drawn-out dramatic performances, with interludes of dancing and
singing, that they will bring their bedding, and not merely remain all
night but several nights—according as the play may hold them! As a
rule, the background is a palace, and the plot concerns the love story
of a prince and princess, which is interrupted by all manner of
vicissitudes—some grotesque, others of genuine pathos; to these the
accompaniment of soft, wailing Burmese music is admirably adapted.
Po Sine, the greatest actor in Burma—an Eastern “star”—had recently
returned to Rangoon from a prolonged tour, and his admirers, who
numbered thousands, were all agog to see and welcome him.
The principal theatre was established in a large space at the back of
the Great Pagoda, trustfully open to the soft blue night, otherwise
strictly encompassed with matting; for in these changed and
money-making days, there was an official box-office at the entrance and
no admittance without cash payment! The stage was only raised a foot or
two from the ground, and a long row of little lamps threw a becoming
red light upon the scene. Here many rows of chairs were arranged for
the use of Europeans, whilst the Easterns sat upon the ground on mats
and folded themselves up in easy native fashion.
On the first night of Po Sine’s reappearance, the arena was packed to
the utmost limit of the matting. In the front were assembled many
European residents, who were treated to bunches of flowers, paper fans,
cheroots and lemonade; also, in a reserved space and on gorgeous rugs,
reclined a number of splendidly attired and bejewelled Burmese
ladies—princesses of the Royal house, a sprightly and animated group;
their flashing diamond combs and long diamond chains made a feature
amid the audience.
Mrs. Gregory had brought a small party, which included Mena Pomeroy,
Robin Close—one of the assistants—and Douglas Shafto, who had never yet
seen the famous Po Sine. Somehow Miss Pomeroy and Mr. Close had
contrived to get separated from their chaperon, but Shafto still stuck
faithfully to his hostess.
A puppet play represented the curtain-raiser, and as this, to Shafto,
was no novelty, he stared about him at the masses of shining black
heads; men with jaunty silk handkerchiefs twisted round their brows,
women with their wreaths and golden combs—an undeniably smart
audience—all smoking. The stage was open to the dark blue sky, which
was sprinkled with stars. Right above them clanged a temple gong; from
far down the river came the hoot of a steamer’s syren, and during
intervals the soft humming of the wind among the labyrinth of shrines—a
complete contrast in every respect was this Eastern scene to the last
play he had witnessed in a London theatre!
All at once there was an influx of people surging in—crafty folk who
knew how to avoid the curtain-raiser. These included a number of
Germans. Among the party in the train of Mrs. Muller, and attended by
Herr Bernhard, was Miss Leigh in a dainty white frock and
flower-trimmed hat, but somehow looking a little bit out of the
picture. Her chaperon, magnificent in a Viennese toilet, unexpectedly
encountered friends who had recently arrived from the Fatherland; these
she hailed with boisterous jubilation, and as she chattered and
gesticulated, listened and interrupted, she entirely forgot her charge;
in fact, she moved on, still talking, and abandoned her, so to speak,
to her fate.
Sophy’s fate, luckily for her, happened to be Mrs. Gregory, who signed
to Shafto to rescue the young lady and conduct her to a place under her
own wing.
“How are you?” he said, accosting her eagerly. “Mrs. Gregory has sent
me to ask if you won’t sit by her? There is lots of room.”
“I should love to, but you see I am here officially with Mrs. Muller.
I’ll go and speak to her, but I think she has filled my seat.”
A hasty word to the chaperon, who had entirely forgotten her existence,
released Sophy and, as she joined Mrs. Gregory, Frau Muller said with a
shrug:
“Oh yes, she is rather pretty in her way. She has got among those
odious English—let her stay with them!”
(Then she threw herself once more into the interesting topic of the
latest scandal in Frankfort.)
“I am so pleased to see you,” said Mrs. Gregory, making room for Sophy
beside her; “what has become of you all these weeks?”
“Oh, I have been in Kokine and quite safe,” she answered, but her smile
was not so ready and whole-hearted as it had been on board ship. “Aunt
Flora caught a chill and has been laid up. Poor dear, she is a martyr
to neuralgia.”
“I know she is subject to it, but surely she does not require you to be
with her _all_ day?”
“No, but Herr Krauss is at home now; the old cook has departed after a
fearful explosion, and housekeeping is a struggle; servants are so
difficult to find and deal with, especially by a strange ‘missy’ like
myself. And Herr Krauss is particular about punctuality and the plates
being hot, and all that sort of thing; I have to make Russian salads,
confitures and sauces, so I have really had no spare time.”
“Yes, I can imagine your hands have been pretty full. But do you mean
to tell me that _you_ run the house?”
“I don’t exactly run it, but I do my best to drag it along—and it’s
rather awkward from my being a new-comer; pice and rupees are
novelties, and everything is supposed to be in German fashion.”
“German fashion!” echoed Shafto. “What’s that?”
“Oh, particular hours, particular food, _Blutwurst_, sausages, Russian
salads, cakes, creams, and plenty of them.”
“Well, I must say Krauss looks sleek and well fed; he does you credit!
But don’t you ever get your Sunday off or your day out?”
“I suppose I do in a way. I have been to dine with one or two of our
neighbours, and we had some really first-rate music; and then, you see,
we live at a long distance from the Cantonment and the Gymkhana.”
“But what about the car?”
“Herr Krauss uses it; he is away most of the day.”
“But you have a horse to ride?”
“Yes, there was one; rather a nice-looking little bay, but soon after I
arrived, he was borrowed by a man who has taken it up to Prome.”
Mrs. Gregory had been listening to this conversation, making mental
notes and setting down bad marks! Her cousin was returning from
Mandalay on the following day, and she determined that she and Milly
would wait upon Mrs. Krauss, and request her to liberate this prisoner.
Mrs. Krauss was a charming, indolent, clinging sort of individual, who
had latterly sunken into a somnolent existence and rarely appeared
above the social surface. Formerly she had been a brilliant figure in
Rangoon society, gave excellent dinners, danced, rode and played bridge
and tennis; but, by degrees, she seemed to have dropped out of things,
and Mrs. Gregory remembered how, once upon a time, when riding
together, she had lamented that she had no children and no particular
interests, and that her energy, such as it was, was ebbing rapidly. Of
course, she had been too long in Lower Burma—eight years of Lower
Burma, merely diluted with an occasional few weeks at May Myo, was
enough to undermine any woman’s mental and bodily state.
“And so your aunt has been ill?” she asked after a long pause.
“Yes, but she is much better now and very cheerful, so I was able to
leave her and accept Mrs. Muller’s invitation to accompany her to this
play.”
“You have seen nothing so far?”
“Well, not much, but there is lots of time.”
Mrs. Gregory glanced at the girl and, in the searching electric light,
noticed that her lovely colour was already fading, the lines of the
face seemed a trifle sharper; beauty is fleeting in Lower Burma.
Meanwhile Shafto, sitting so silent at the ladies’ feet, was secretly
boiling with rage.
So the fat old German, in spite of his wealth, had made his wife’s
niece both sick nurse and house-keeper; one of these tasks was ample
for any girl; Miss Leigh had been six weeks in Rangoon and had never
even seen the Pagoda!
“I know you are fond of riding,” he began; “do you think you could come
for a gallop if I produced a pony?”
“And a chaperon,” supplemented Mrs. Gregory. “I can offer my services
and a mount, and I’ll call for you at seven o’clock on Thursday
morning. You may come, too,” she added, turning to Shafto, “and we will
go to the Pineapple Forest.”
“How delightful, and how very kind of you!” said Sophy. “I am sure I
can manage—as long as I am in by nine o’clock.”
“But why nine o’clock, my dear Cinderella?”
“Because I have to interview the cook when he returns from the bazaar.
Herr Krauss is something of a gourmand and rather querulous about his
food, and he often brings in one or two men to tiffin or dinner.”
“A nice, amusing change,” said Shafto. “You must find old Krauss a bit
monotonous. What does he talk about? Wolfram or sausages?”
“He talks a good deal about my aunt—he really is devoted to her.”
“Well, I’ll mark him up one for that. I suppose the guests are his own
compatriots?”
“Yes, they come on business, and are nearly always the same. They talk
German all the time, which I cannot understand—only when they stare at
me and say something about ‘Engländerin’; after dinner we have music
and Herr Krauss and I play duets. His instrument is the violin—most of
the neighbours are musical, first-rate musicians and so critical; I
appreciate that—it keeps me up to the mark.”
“I think, among them, they all keep you up to the mark,” observed Mrs.
Gregory, and whatever she was about to add was abruptly interrupted by
a loud, swelling, unanimous murmur of “Ah Wah, Ah Wah,” which suddenly
rose from a thousand throats. This rapturous acclamation hailed the
appearance of Po Sine, the star of the Burmese theatre—unsurpassed and
unapproachable in either tragedy or comedy. Po Sine was nothing to look
at—a thin, ordinary, little man, but endowed with genius; even those
who could not understand a word he said immediately recognised the
great actor.
This particular play was a favourite comedy; shouts of laughter shook
the audience and the encompassing walls of matting, and in this Shafto
and his companion could not help joining.
“I wonder what it is all about,” said Sophy. “I know it’s very amusing.
What was that funny thing he said last?” she asked as the shrieks died
down.
Shafto coloured guiltily. Although far from being an expert in the
Burmese language, he had caught the drift of this sentence—a coarse
_double entendre_, which he could not possibly interpret to a girl.
Burmese plays are not always decorous; this particular performance was
an odd mixture of ancient and modern. The lovers, who were, as usual,
princes and princesses, played stately roles and moved about with
majestic dignity and in gorgeous raiment—their prototypes dated from
the days of Buddha; on the other hand, the clown and the country men,
who enacted the parts of villains and devils, were essentially
modern—as quick with patter songs and up-to-date local events and jokes
as the cleverest music-hall artist. At intervals the weird Burmese
band, with its clashing cymbals, harps and clarions, discoursed the
latest Burmese operatic airs.
It was one o’clock and the great bell in the heart of the Pagoda had
throbbed out its long deep note, when Mrs. Gregory rose and collected
her party.
“I’m so sorry I can’t take you with me,” she said to Sophy. “I hope
your German friends will not remain all night. However, I shall depute
Mr. Shafto to look after you. Please tell your aunt that I hope to call
and see her very shortly—and do not forget that you are to ride with me
on Thursday morning.”
As if it was likely! Then Mrs. Gregory took her departure, leaving
Sophy and her companion to a _tête-à-tête_.
“I think we will move up closer to your friends,” he said; “I see two
empty seats behind them. Our people can’t stick this for more than
three or four hours.”
“How have you been getting on?” inquired Sophy, “and how do you like
Burma?”
“Burma suits me down to the ground; I like it most awfully. I’ve been
very busy learning my job, but I’ve seen a good deal outside business
hours.”
“What have you seen?”
“Oh, well, wrestling, tattooing and cock-fights; I have been once up
the river as far as Prome, and to several native shows, including a
funeral.”
“How have you managed that?”
“Salter, a fellow in our house, took me; the funeral was a strange
affair—not a bit like ours; everyone in gala clothes, great feasting
and a band in the house; altogether a lively entertainment. When a man
is dying, his friends come and gather round and cheer him, and tell him
of all the good deeds he has done in his lifetime. At the graveside
there is an extraordinary business with a silk handkerchief, in which
the nearest relation is supposed to catch and enclose the departed
spirit, now in the form of a white butterfly—and dangerous to mortals
for seven days and nights. I have seen a good deal of native life
already.”
“How lucky you are!” exclaimed the girl; “and I’ve seen nothing but
Germans.”
“Salter has taken me about and naturally he has extra opportunities,
being married to a Burmese.”
“Married to a Burmese?” echoed Sophy; her tone was incredulous.
“Yes. At one time it was quite a common thing. Mrs. Salter—her real
name is Mee Lay—is sitting over there in about the fifth row back,
behind the fellow with the scarlet handkerchief twisted round his head.
Presently you must turn and look at her. She is a nice, cheery woman,
and Salter is an interesting, original sort of man. I dine with them
now and then. Mee Lay is uncommonly businesslike—has a good deal of
land and a flourishing rice concern.”
“She has? How amazing!”
“I see you don’t know much of Burma yet.”
“No; so far I am only acquainted with the bazaar prices, the gorgeous
flowers, delicious fruit and futurist insects!”
“Well, women do most of the business and do it well; the men are a
lazy, loafing lot; very genial and sporting, fond of cock-fighting and
gambling—absolutely regardless of expense or debt. Mrs. Salter is rich;
if you will look round now you will see her—the little woman with the
yellow fan and diamond comb; notice her blazing ear-rings; and yet I
have seen the same lady with her petticoats kilted high, standing
knee-deep in a rice cart and diving with both hands into the grain to
test its quality!”
“That is a very pretty girl with flowers in her hair, beside her,”
remarked Sophy; “look, she is nodding to you. Who is she?”
“Her name is Ma Chit; she is Mrs. Salter’s cousin. Sometimes she drops
in when I am there; the Salters live close to my chummery. I have a
munshi now and I am learning Burmese.”
“And—and I am learning German!”
“How do you hit it off with your uncle?”
“Please don’t call him my uncle.”
“Then I am answered.”
Sophy laughed and coloured brilliantly.
“I suppose so. We do not coalesce; our ideas, age and country are
different; he is hard as a rock, brusque and overbearing—but amazingly
clever and energetic. He seems to hold so many threads in his hands, to
deal with such numbers of people; his correspondence is enormous; his
office, when he is at home, is surrounded and stormed by all sorts of
people—Mohammedans, Chinese, Burmese, all waiting on his good pleasure
and his nod. I scarcely see anything of him except at meals, and then
he is too much taken up with eating to have time to spare for
conversation; but we meet in one spot—music-land! He plays the violin;
we do Beethoven together and are great friends; then when the piano
closes——” she paused.
“You are enemies?”
“Not exactly enemies, but I do hate the way he gobbles his food and
bullies the servants; and then he says such rude things about
England—perhaps it’s only done on purpose to make me angry? He declares
we are a wretched, rotten, played-out old country, going down the hill
as hard as we can fly. He is narrow-minded, too; so arrogant—the
Germans can do no wrong, the English can never do right. I am telling
dreadful tales, am I not? All the same, he has an English wife, and is
simply devoted to Aunt Flora; nothing is too good for her. It is really
funny to see this rough overbearing man so gentle and thoughtful. But
then, she is a dear!”
“Oh, is she?”
“You shall see for yourself. You must come to tea on Sunday. I am sure
I may invite you; Aunt Flora is so kind and sympathetic, and has a look
of mother.”
“I’ll come all right, if you think she’ll not be _durwaza bund_.”
“No, she is ever so much better, but the last few years has been more
or less an invalid.”
“What is her particular illness? Is it fever?”
“Fever and neuralgia. Some days she will lie in a darkened room and see
no one but her ayah; she won’t even admit me, though occasionally I do
slip in; she has had a bad attack lately, but is now convalescent. Oh,
I see Mrs. Muller moving at last; now we shall be going.”
“I’m afraid you’ve found this show a hit dull.”
“Not at all—it has been a most interesting sight; I don’t know when I
have enjoyed myself so much.”
“So have I; it has been a——”
Whatever Shafto was about to add was interrupted by Mrs. Muller, who
pounced on his companion with a laughing apology, and handed her over
to the charge of Herr Bernhard.
Two days later Mrs. Gregory and Mrs. Milward called at “Heidelberg,”
and on the veranda encountered Sophy, who was hurrying out to keep an
appointment to practise duets with Frau Muller.
“I’m so dreadfully sorry,” she said, when the first greetings were
over, “but I must go; I’ll get back as soon as ever I can. Aunt Flora
is at home.”
But when Sophy returned the visitors had already departed, leaving
their hostess a good deal disturbed. Indeed, Mrs. Krauss’s languid
spirits had been violently shaken. Mrs. Milward had remarked on Sophy’s
changed appearance, and her tone had been hostile.
“It is very plain that Burma does not suit her,” she said. “I could not
believe that any girl would have altered in so short a time; I shall
write to her mother at once.”
“Oh, dear Mrs. Milward, what do you mean?”
“I should think anyone could _see_ what I mean,” rejoined the lady, who
was very angry and had heard the tale of Sophy’s heavy cares.
“The girl looks ill. I have known Sophy for years—known her since she
was a small child—and I can assure you that she has never been
accustomed to a strenuous indoor employment, to getting no exercise or
relaxation—or ever meeting people of her own age.”
Her hostess was struck dumb; her torpid conscience suddenly awoke and
condemned her; Mrs. Milward, who was immediately leaving Rangoon and
had no fear of retaliation, continued with ruthless animosity:
“It is true what you say—that your niece has been a wonderful comfort
to _you_, but will it be a comfort to her mother when she hears that
she is merely a hard-worked lady-help? I think it would be well to
arrange that she should return home with _me_.”
Tears now trembled in the culprit’s dark eyes, and she fumbled for her
handkerchief.
“Oh, Mrs. Milward,” she said piteously, “I do see what you mean. I have
been ill and stupid; my husband has always spoiled me, and thinks that
other people are only brought into the world to wait upon _me_. I
realise my selfishness now. Yes, you are right, the child looks pale
and no longer flits about the house singing her little songs. I beg you
will not alarm my sister; I will undertake that things are altered and
you may depend upon me, dear Mrs. Milward; you have made me feel
horribly guilty. I know I am a self-centred invalid, but I intend to
mend my ways.” And tears, no longer to be restrained, trickled down the
worn, cadaverous face of Mrs. Krauss.