Kitabı oku: «An English Girl's First Impressions of Burmah», sayfa 10
Chapter XII. —
THE RETURN. —
"But that's all shove be'ind me – long ago and far away
An' there ain't no busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay."
"For the temple-bells are callin', and it's there that I would be
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea."
(Kipling.)
—
To the stranger in this fascinating country, days are as minutes, months as days, and it seemed that scarcely had I arrived and commenced to look around me, when my visit came to an end, and sadly bidding farewell to Remyo and its many delights, all too soon I had to return home.
Alas! too, I found I was compelled to renew my acquaintance with the Burmese pony, the only alternative being a bullock cart; and let those who have ridden forty miles along an up-country road in a Burmese bullock cart – but no! I do not like to think such an experience can have befallen my worst enemy.
Once more, therefore, I mounted to the saddle, and rode, or more properly speaking bumped, twenty miles the first day. At the end of that distance I had no desire to proceed further, nor, I am sure, had the pony. Accordingly, we stopped at the now familiar dâk bungalow, and stabled ourselves and our ponies for the night. I do not know what were my pony's feelings that night as he thought over the events of the day, but they cannot have been pleasant. He was a strong-minded pony (possibly he had some sympathy for his rider) and having come to the conclusion that a repetition on the morrow of the past day's proceedings would be unpleasant and unwise, during the night he slipped his halter and gently trotted back to Remyo, accompanied by my brother's and the orderly's mounts.
When we arose in the morning, all we found in the little hut at the bottom of the bungalow compound were three belated looking saddles and some broken bridle reins, and the only course open to us was to continue our journey on foot.
Some people, I believe, pretend to see humour in such situations, but we were not amused. The heat was awful, the road almost knee deep in dust, and as we plodded along for several miles, losing our way in short cuts, scrambling down precipitous ravines and dry water courses, and exchanging no single word, but keeping all our breath for the exertion of clambering out again, I became, by comparison, almost reconciled to the previous day's experiences.
When at last we reached the foot of the hills, and found a "gharry" waiting to convey us to Mandalay, we resembled pillars of dust, and were as thirsty as the desert. I was so tired that I forgot to be sentimental over the last glimpse of the hills; and as we approached Mandalay, beautiful in her bower of green, with the sun shining as ever on the "dreaming spires," the white pagodas, and the golden domes, my one and only desire was "Drink."
I had delayed my departure from Remyo as late as possible in the hopes of witnessing a "hpoongyi burning," one of the most characteristic Burmese festivals. The holy man had died some time previously, and in order to do his memory due honour, his body had been preserved many months, and the burning, with the many strange rites and festivities which invariably accompany such ceremonies, was announced to take place the week before my departure. But from some unknown cause (perhaps they discovered he had been more virtuous than they at first imagined) the authorities suddenly decided to preserve the body until a more imposing pageant could be prepared, so I missed the sight; and having delayed my departure, I had time only to spend a few hours in Mandalay and Rangoon before embarking on the homeward bound steamer.
It was very sad, that departure from Rangoon, where so many friends were left behind, as the last beauties of this bewitching country faded slowly from sight. The glaring noonday sunshine shed no illusory haze over the scene. The muddy brown water of the river and the ugly shores lined with factories and mills, seemed a foretaste of the matter-of-fact land to which we were returning; but behind rose the distant palm trees, and the golden dome; and the soft music of the tinkling bells of the pagoda, bidding us a last farewell, was wafted to us by the perfume laden eastern breeze.
My homeward voyage was without any extraordinary incident, and in due course I arrived at Marseilles. This well-known port requires no description, but I must say a few words in its favour; it is so universally disparaged.
The noisy, unsavoury Marseilles of the docks and harbour is very different from Marseilles viewed from that magnificent church, "Notre Dame de la garde." When we climb to the summit of the rock whereon stands the stately white church, surmounted by the huge golden image of the Virgin, keeping watch over the ships that enter the harbour, and shining as a beacon miles out to welcome sight to the longing eyes of the home coming sailor; when we look down from our height over the pretty little red and white houses, the graceful spires, and the clusters of dark green foliage nestling in the shelter of the high white cliffs which enclose the harbour; and again beyond the town, beyond the rugged brown rocks, and the placid deep blue water, to the ancient "Chateau D'If," dark and forbidding in the midst of the sunny landscape, we acknowledge that nature in the bestowal of her beauties has not, after all, confined her gifts to the dreaming East.
I think the true reason why Marseilles is so frequently spoken of with disfavour is on account of the "Bouillabaisse," the terrible mixture which delights the palates of the natives, and which innocent strangers are induced to partake of under the delusion that it must therefore be good for human food.
The only recommendation this dish possesses is the curious interest it arouses in one's mind as to what it is really composed of. One never knows what form of fish, flesh, or bad red herring one may encounter next. The appearance of the dish resembles one's childish imaginations of a "Mess of Pottage." Its scent suggests Marseilles harbour, and the stoke hole of a Channel steamer. I myself was never sufficiently enterprising to taste it, but judging by the expression of haggard thought that overspread the features of some who were so venturesome, I should say the taste must be "mystic, wonderful," and that years of careful study are necessary to attain to a true appreciation of its subtle delicacy.
I think the journey from Marseilles to London is the most wearisome that can be undertaken. After the warmth, the quiet, and the absence of hurry to which I had become accustomed in the East, I found the bustle and noise, added to the piercing cold of a European April, almost overpowering. I shivered on deck, as our steamer ploughed her way across the Channel, through a damp clinging fog, and when at last the welcome white cliffs came into sight, I was far too miserable to wax sentimental over this return to my native shore, and I longed only for tea and a fire.
Yet after all, despite the contrast betwixt sunshine and yellow fog, between jungle glades and London streets, despite all the advantages which we know that every other clime and country can boast over our own, England is England still, and Home is Home.
And now let me offer a word of advice to those who, like myself, undertake adventurous wanderings far from their native land, and recount the same with many embellishments. On their return home, let them beware of introducing to the admiring circle of their friends, any who may have accompanied them on their travels.
I had been back at home some three months, had told my story, and had established my reputation, when one day a visitor from Burmah arrived.
He had not been long in the house before some uncalled-for allusion was made to the historic occasion on which I defended my sister's house in Remyo from a body of dacoits. He denied all knowledge of the incident. Suspicions awoke in the breasts of my friends. They questioned the visitor about my struggle with the tiger, my adventure with the bear, my heroic bravery on the occasion of the shipwreck, and about all my other best inspired narrations.
Alas! he denied them all, and my credit was gone for ever. I fancy some have even ceased to believe that I have been to Burmah at all, and some have become so suspicious as to make enquiries as to whether I really am myself. It is hard! and the recently notorious contributor to the "Wide Wide World" Magazine has my deep sympathy. Would I had lived in the days of Columbus; I would have discovered more than America, had I enjoyed such excellent opportunities as did he.
* * * * * *
Thus ends the account of my experiences in Burmah, and of the impression left on my mind by this oft-described country.
Perhaps distance lends enchantment to the view, and makes me forget the evils of the climate, the dangers and discomforts of life there, the slowness of locomotion, the lack of many so-called benefits of civilisation; and I seem to remember only a land where the sun is always shining and the world is always gay; where the air is heavy with delicious eastern scents, and filled with the harmonious music of the temple bells, as they are gently swayed by the whispering breeze. A land where the hues of earth can vie with the brilliancy of the sunset, and the eye is feasted with delicately blended colours.
Here Beauty and Peace hold eternal honeymoon. Misery seems to have no place in this land of delight, but contentment ever reigns, and the happy Burman dreams away his life in a paradise of sunshine. No one who has visited this country can ever forget it, but learns to understand too well that fascination so well expressed by Mr. Kipling: "If you've 'eard the East a' callin', you won't never 'eed nought else."
I remember Burmah, too, as a land of picturesque buildings, of rich jewels, exquisite costumes, and beautiful graceful women. A land of kindly hearts, friendly welcomes, and ungrudging hospitality.
These are remembered when the last glint of the golden-domed pagoda has faded into the shadowy distance, and we sail away from the peaceful sunshine and the palm trees, westward ho! to this hurrying, bustling modern world, where, though beauty exists, we have no time to appreciate it, and where, like King Midas of old, we would turn all we touch to glittering gold, and for ever destroy its charm.
