THE KING'S REPRESENTATIVE
[Illustration: THE GOVERNMENT SERVANT.]
We are lucky! No sooner have we returned to the hotel than a gorgeous
man, over six feet high, dressed in white, with a red sash, in which is
stuck a tasselled dagger, greets us. He is a _chuprassie_, or messenger,
and has come from Government House with a note inviting us to a
garden-party there this afternoon. What a day of it! This is the result
of my having been up there yesterday to write our names in the book kept
for the purpose, while I left you to rest. That is the way people do
here instead of leaving cards, so that His Excellency the
Lieutenant-Governor may know who has come to the country. I thought
perhaps he would take some notice of us, because his younger brother was
my great friend at the 'Varsity, but this is very prompt. I am glad you
will have a chance of seeing something of Government House, as most
people in England have not an idea how things are run here. Burma is
counted as one of the provinces of India, and is under the Viceroy of
all India, but within his own borders the Lieutenant-Governor is the
ruler and representative of the King.
It is about four o'clock, when, having had a rest and made ourselves as
smart as we can, we crawl up the long drive leading to Government House
in one of the ridiculous small ticca-gharries which are the only
conveyances one can get.
We are one of a long procession of vehicles going at a foot's pace,
stopping and starting again. Some are private carriages, there are a few
motors, a few dog-carts, and ours is not the only little box on wheels.
Lean out a little and you will see a flash of jewels and satiny silk in
that one in front of us; evidently some wealthy natives are among the
guests. The long line of vehicles comes up to the door, and when the
occupants have alighted the drivers curve on round the lawn and go away.
At last our turn comes. A pleasant-looking man, all in white, with a red
sash and sword, and a wonderful bunch of tassels and plaits in gold,
called an aiguillette, on his breast, greets us as cordially as if we
were old friends. Notice the plume of rose-pink feathers on his helmet!
He seems to know all about us without our saying a word, and as he leads
the way across the short grass lawn to where our host and hostess stand
ready to greet their guests, he tells me that His Excellency's brother,
my old friend, is actually staying here now.
His Excellency is in English costume, with a star on his breast; he
shakes hands kindly and calls out to summon his brother, who is not far
off, and we pass on to make way for the stream of newcomers.
We could not be in better hands. Claude and I have not met for years,
but that makes no difference; we greet each other as if we had parted
only yesterday. He takes us over to the tables for tea and fruit. And
when he hears this is your first visit he insists on your eating a
mango, which is the most famous fruit in the country and just ripe.
These are a specially good sort, not very large, with pink "cheeks";
when you have stripped off the tough skin you find you get down to the
big stone very soon, and there isn't much room for the fruity part
between, still, what there is of it is excellent, and I see you
furtively using your handkerchief to get rid of the stickiness
afterwards!
Then we sit in basket-chairs, not too near the band, and Claude tells us
"all about it." It is a much more brilliant scene than an ordinary
garden-party at home, because in addition to the Europeans there are a
number of high-class Burmese. Those little ladies near us standing in a
group are most gorgeously attired in much-embroidered fussy little
jackets with short wings, or lappets, sticking out behind, and their
skirts, or tameins, are woven of the richest silk. As that one turns you
see that beside the flowers in her hair she has two big pins with heads
the size of small walnuts; those are real diamonds, not perhaps of the
first water, but still of great value. The ladies' faces are smooth with
yellow powder, and there is something very neat about their movements. A
little way off is a Burman with a pink goungbaum and very rich silk
skirt. The grass, kept green by plentiful early morning watering, is
quite vivid in colour, and the clear cloudless sky is of a thrilling
blue. Government House itself is a great palace, not beautiful, as it is
built of yellow brick and pink terra-cotta, but imposing and dignified.
Burman attendants wearing turbans and skirts, called _lyungis_, of
purest mauve, and dainty white jackets, glide about with the
refreshments. Burmans will seldom take service with anyone, generally
they leave that to the natives of India, but they make a distinction in
the case of anyone so important as the Lieutenant-Governor.
"It's all rather overwhelming to me," says my friend. "You know I am a
quiet man; a well-seasoned pipe and a den full of books are about my
mark. I had no idea till I came out here that my brother was such a
boss; it makes me want to run away."
"Tell us about some of the guests," I suggest. "Why does that man in the
saffron-coloured robe have yards too much of it?"
[Illustration: A LITTLE BURMESE LADY.]
"That's his best garment, called a _putso_, I understand. The more stuff
the better, all bunched up; to show he can afford it, I suppose. Doesn't
leave much room for the tailor to display his cut. He's a prominent
Government man. I don't know him personally. Those two ladies in the
fussy little jackets are royalties; they wear that sort of thing because
they're of the old royal blood, though otherwise you only see it in the
_pwes_, or plays. They are of the house of Theebaw, the king we
dethroned in 1885 when we took over Upper Burma. He's living still in
India, where he was sent into exile. I don't know what relation these
two are to him, but when every king had at least thirty sons, there was
no scarcity of relations! It was the custom for the son who mounted the
throne in the old days to kill off all his brothers if he could lay
hands on them, as a precaution in case of accidents. I take it some of
the ladies were spared, which would make for the inequality of the
sexes."
"I suppose your brother is like a king out here?"
"He is the representative of the King. You should see him driving in
state with outriders in scarlet liveries. People in England don't
realise it. I always say how he will suffer when he retires and goes to
England, where no one will shiko to him!"
At that moment he springs to his feet to shake hands with a dignified
short Burman in beautiful native dress, to whom he introduces us. This
is the Sawbwa, or chief, of Hsipaw, one of the native states. The Sawbwa
has been educated in England and speaks perfectly correct English. He
has a passion for travel and wants to go round the world, he says, but
he has to get permission from the Viceroy before leaving the country, as
the English Government doesn't like the native princes leaving their
territory. So long as he stays at home and governs his people well he is
not interfered with, but when he wants to go away he feels the hand of
Britain over him!
After talking a little while he asks us if we have seen the football--he
calls it football, but, as he explains, it is a native game called
_chin-lon_, which is not quite the same.
We saunter across the lawn and find that a sort of exhibition game for
the amusement of the guests is going on. The ball is made of wicker-work
and is kept in the air by the knees or feet of the players very
cleverly, in fact, so cleverly that it looks quite easy to do. The young
men who are playing turn and twist and always catch it just right,
sending it spinning upwards very neatly. This is a game played by every
village lad, but if you tried it you'd find it uncommonly difficult.
[Illustration: "BOXING."]
A little farther on two men are boxing with their feet, raising their
legs in the high kick and sometimes smacking each other's faces with the
soles; the way they balance is extraordinary, there are roars of
laughter when one nearly goes over but just recovers himself. He is a
bit of a clown, that fellow, and does it on purpose now and again,
though really he is perfectly balanced. Then we walk on with Claude
toward the house, where the marble steps are lined by chuprassies, like
the one who brought us our invitation this morning; we pass into the
hall, with its high white columns and airy spaciousness, and then we see
masses of wood-carving like that at the choung, deeply undercut, and a
huge pair of elephant tusks. Everywhere are tall vases with great
orange and red flags, something of the same kind as those that grow by
riversides, only much larger.
The passages are in the form of great arcades, and the ballroom behind
is vast. It is indeed a palace fit for a king!
His Excellency is very gracious, and when he is free for a few minutes
he talks to us and asks us to stay with him and his wife on our way back
from up-country, an invitation we gladly accept. He also promises to
make everything easy for us on our tour. As we go away, after having
taken our leave, I hear you say thoughtfully--
"I think I'd like to be a Lieutenant-Governor when I grow up!"
It is a good ambition, but you will have to be clever and very hard
working to achieve it, and even then you will want a bit of luck. You
must go into the Indian Civil Service first, and after all, of course,
you may never get there, but with a bit of luck----
[Illustration: THE PALACE.]