Читать книгу Among the Burmans: A Record of Fifteen Years of Work and its Fruitage - Henry Park Cochrane - Страница 4

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The Chanda was slowly making her way with the tide up the Rangoon River. Two young missionaries, myself and wife, were leaning on the rail, deeply interested in the scene before us. The rising sun, sending its rays over the land, seemed to us a pledge of the Master's presence in the work to which we had consecrated our lives. On every hand were strange sights and sounds, strange scenery, strange craft, strange people; everything far and near so unlike the old life that we had left behind. But it was something more than new sights and sounds that stirred in us the deep emotion expressed in moistened eye and trembling lip. Thoughts were going back to the time when we heard the call, "Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?" And now that we were about to enter upon the realization of that to which we had so long looked forward, hearts too full for utterance, were stirred with gratitude and praise. But not long were we permitted to indulge in either retrospect or prospect. As the steamer drew near the dock all was turmoil and excitement—officers shouting their orders; sailors dragging the great ropes into place; passengers getting their luggage ready for quick removal; friends on ship and shore eagerly seeking to recognize a familiar face; waving of handkerchiefs; sudden exclamations when an acquaintance or loved one was recognized.

At last the gangplank is in place, and on they come—officials, coolies, business men, hotel-runners, representatives of many races, and conditions, energy for once superseding rank; missionaries well to the front to extend a welcome to the newcomers.

What a power there is in the hearty hand-shake and cordial greeting! To the newcomer, who has everything to learn and much to unlearn—this warm reception by the veterans is a link to reconnect him with the world from which he seemed to have been separated during the long voyage; a bridge to span the gulf of his own inexperience; a magic-rite of adoption into the great missionary family; a pledge of fellowship and cooperation for all the years to come.

It was Sunday morning—though few in that motley crowd either knew or cared. Mohammedan, Hindu, Parsee, Buddhist, and "Christian" jostled one another, each intent on his own affairs, and all combining to make this the farthest possible extreme from a "day of holy rest." Little wonder that this first Oriental Sunday was a distinct shock to the new missionaries. They had yet to learn that on many such Sundays they would long for the "Sabbath- and Sanctuary-privileges" of the home-land. But soon it became evident that the missionaries at least, were about the "Father's business," each hurrying away to be in time for the morning service in his own department of mission-work among many races. To the eye of one who has just landed in Rangoon each individual in the throng of natives on the street seems to have arrayed himself as fantastically as possible, or to have gone to the other extreme and failed to array himself at all. But at these Christian services one sees the natives classified according to race, and learns to distinguish certain racial characteristics—of feature, costume, and custom. A congregation of Burmese is a beautiful sight, their showy skirts, turbans, and scarfs presenting the appearance of a flower garden in full bloom, but especially beautiful as a company of precious souls turned from their idols to the "True and living God."

Among our first experiences was a warm appreciation of the kind attempts on the part of the missionaries to initiate us, by means of good advice, into life in the tropics. "Now do be careful about exposing yourself to this tropical sun. Remember, you are not in America now."

"That solar tope of yours is not thick enough for one who is not used to this climate." "Flannel next to the skin is absolutely necessary, as a safeguard against malaria, dysentery, and other complaints so common here." "Now dear brother and sister, you must look out and not let your zeal run away with your judgment. Yankee hustle won't do in Burma."

Dear souls, we thought, you mean well, but we are not subject to these troubles of which you speak. Their warnings sink about as deep as the remark of one of our party who ran down the gangplank just ahead of us: "When you have been in the country as long as I have, etc.,"—an old expression, now under the ban. A few months later we began to take their advice. Experiences leading to such action will be described further on. Two days afterwards we reached our mission station, just as the sun was going down. While picking out our "luggage" (it was baggage when it left America) we received our first impressions as to the British Indian system of checking, or "booking," as it is called.

A luggage receipt given at the starting point, called for so many pieces. Then we found that to each article was glued a patch of paper on which its destination was marked, and also a number corresponding to the number on the receipt. All well so far. The luggage clerk seemed neither to know nor care, but left each passenger to claim his own.

We noticed too that everything imaginable was allowed to be booked, a certain number of viss in weight being allowed free on each ticket.

To our observing eyes, each passenger's luggage indicated about how long he had been in the country, or how much he had travelled.

Some evil spirit seems to possess the luggage clerk's assistant to glue the label in a new place each time, cancelling other bookings by tearing off loose corners of old labels. This custom is specially trying to spirituality when applied to bicycles, the railroad glue having such affinity for enamel that they stay or come off together. Another thing that impressed us was the suddenness with which the darkness of night came on, as if "darkness rather than light" reigned over this heathen land, and could hardly wait for the usurping sun to disappear behind the horizon. First impressions of our new home we gained late that night, by the dim light of a lantern. Home, did I say? As we peered through the shadows it did not strike us as being a place that could ever, by any stretch of imagination, seem like home. Bare, unpainted walls dingy with age; huge round posts, some of them running up through the rooms; no furniture except a teak bedstead, and a large round table so rickety that it actually bowed to us when we stepped into the room; lizards crawling on walls and ceiling—interesting and harmless things, as we afterwards found, but not specially attractive to a newcomer. Oh, no—it was not homesickness, only just lack of power to appreciate a good thing after the weary experiences of our long journey. In the night I was roused from sleep by hearing some one calling. Half awake, I was getting out from under the mosquito net, when my wife remarked, "Better get back into bed. It is only that taukteh, that Mrs. ——told us about." The taukteh is the "crowing," or "trout-spotted lizard." The English call it the tuctoo, from the sound it makes. The Burmans call it taukteh, for the same reason. Some declare that it says "doctor, doctor," as plain as day. Alarming stories are told of this terrible creature; how it loses its hold on the ceiling to alight in a lady's hair, and that nothing short of removing scalp and all will dislodge it. The worst thing we have known it to do was to wake the baby in the dead of the night, when we had got fairly settled to sleep after hours of sweltering. I have shot several for this unpardonable offense. The taukteh's sudden call in the night causes some children to suffer much from fright, though no harm is intended.

Our house was situated on a narrow strip of land with streets on three sides, and school dormitory in the rear. Just across one street was a native Police Guard, but we did not know what it was until next morning. We had come into our possessions after dark, so knew nothing of our environment. These were dacoit times. Disturbances were frequent. Of course our ears had been filled with exciting stories of dacoit atrocities. The incessant and unintelligible jabbering of the Paunjabby policemen, sometimes sounding as though they were on the verge of a fight, and the sharp call of the sentry as he challenged passers-by were anything but conducive to sleep through that first night in our mission bungalow.

The new missionary has many trying experiences while becoming accustomed to the changed conditions of life in the tropics. Judging from our own experience and observation, covering many years, it seems utterly impossible for the returned missionary to transmit to the new missionary, while yet in the home-land, anything like true conceptions of the life upon which he is about to enter, and how to prepare for it. Either the new missionary has theories of his own which he fondly imagines never have been tried, or he considers himself so unlike other mortals that rules of living, developed by long experience, do not apply to one of his own peculiar physical make-up. But whatever his attitude of mind towards the new life and work, the fact remains that he has dropped down in the midst of conditions so unlike anything in his past experience that he must learn to adapt himself to life as he finds it. The first place to apply his gift of adaptation is in the household. First experiences with native servants are decidedly interesting, to say the least. Our cook "Naraswamy," "Sammy" for short—came to us highly recommended, and neatly clothed. We had not yet learned that the poorer the cook, the better his recommendations (often borrowed from some other cook), and the neater his clothing—also borrowed for the purpose of securing a place, but never seen after the first day or two.

One day when "Missis" was giving directions about the dinner she called Sammy and said, "Sammy, how many eggs have you?" "Two egg, missis." "Very well, you make a pudding the best you can, with the two eggs." At dinner no pudding appeared. "Sammy, where is the pudding?" Putting on a sorrowful look Sammy replied, "I done break egg" (spreading out his hands to indicate the two eggs), "one got child, one got child." When Sammy felt fairly sure of keeping his place, his two little boys began to spend much of their time in and around the cook house. One of our first rules was that no child should be allowed to go naked on the mission compound. These two dusky youngsters had not a thread of clothing. Sammy was called up and instructed that if his children were coming to the mission premises, they must be properly clothed, at the same time presenting him with a suit for one child. The next day they came again, with smiles of satisfaction, one wearing the trousers, the other the jacket. Many of these Madrassi cooks are professing Christians, merely to secure a place in a missionary family. A small minority are Christians in fact. But whether a heathen cook sneaks off with a stuffed turban, or a professed Christian appropriates our food quietly humming "I love to steal——" the resulting loss to commissariat and spirituality is the same.

Madrassi cooks, almost without exception, are dishonest. They will jealously guard "Master's" property against the depredations of all comers, but help themselves to a liberal commission from the daily Bazar money—and catch them if you can. This has been their custom for many generations, and is their right, from their point of view.

When engaging a cook it may as well be kept in mind that his pay is so much a month, and——. He will fill out the blank to suit himself.

Take his Bazar-account every day, and make him show the articles charged for, but do not congratulate yourself that he has made nothing by the transaction. And yet his prices may be quite as low as his employer could get. Find fault with the quality of the meat, and he will bring a better article, but short weight. A stranger might conjecture that the meat was selected for its wearing qualities, as one would buy leather; or that they had heard of the mummified beef found with one of the Pharaohs, and decided that only such was kingly food.

The cook is supposed to board himself. He does, and all his family connections. Just how he does it may never be known, but "Master" pays the bill, in "cash or kind." Bengalee cooks are much more desirable, but hard to get. Mrs. Judson's testimony to the faithfulness of her Bengalee cook may well be repeated here.

"I just reached Aungpenla when my strength seemed entirely exhausted. The good native cook came out to help me into the house; but so altered and emaciated was my appearance that the poor fellow burst into tears at the first sight. I crawled on to the mat in the little room, to which I was confined for more than two months, and never perfectly recovered until I came to the English camp. At this period, when I was unable to take care of myself, or look after Mr. Judson, we must both have died had it not been for the faithful and affectionate care of our Bengalee cook. A common Bengalee cook will do nothing but the simple business of cooking; but he seemed to forget caste, and almost all his own wants in his efforts to serve us, … I have frequently known him not to taste food until near night, in consequence of having to go so far for wood and water, and in order to have Mr. Judson's dinner ready at the usual hour. He never complained, never asked for his wages, and never for a moment hesitated to go anywhere, or perform any act that we required."

The dhoby (washerman) is always a source of much distraction. He takes away the soiled linen on Monday, promising to bring it back on Saturday; carries it to the riverside, stands in the water facing the shore, pounds it out on a flat stone with swinging blows, and—brings back what is left. Garments worn perhaps but once, are found on spreading out, to be spoiled by long rents or mildew. Socks that have been filled with sand in order to strike a harder blow, still retain enough sand to cause much discomfort. One or two pieces are missing altogether. He promises to bring them the next time. In the meantime he has probably hired them out to some person of mixed blood and principles, or native aping European habits. The sweeper, waterman, and other native helpers slight their work, or perchance, with the poorest excuse, and that not made known until afterwards—absent themselves altogether. "But why"—some will ask "is it necessary to employ these native cooks, washermen, etc.?

"Many of these women who go to the foreign field as missionaries' wives were accustomed to do much of their own work here at home—why not do the same over there, and so avoid the expense—as many of us who support them have to do?" In the first place, many of the missionaries have only one servant who is paid for full time, that is the cook. All others do a little work night and morning, their wages being made up by serving several different families. Again, it would be a physical impossibility for the missionary's wife to do the cooking and washing, adding the heat and smoke of an open fire to the tropical heat of the atmosphere. Some have tried it, only to give it up as utterly impracticable. Others have persisted in it, only to be laid away in a cemetery in a foreign land, or to return hopelessly broken in health, to the home-land.

It cannot be done. Moreover, it would be the height of folly for the wife to spend her time and strength over cooking utensils, dish-pans and wash-tubs. The wife, as truly as the husband, has consecrated her life to the Master's service. There is work for her to do, among the women and children, that he cannot touch. The missionary's wife whether touring with him among jungle-villages; visiting from house to house in the town; working in the school; making her influence felt in the church; or even when prevented by family cares or failing health—from engaging in active service—she furnishes the object lesson of a well-ordered Christian home, her life is of just as much worth to the cause of Christ as is that of the missionary whose helpmate she is. I can do no better than quote Dr. Herrick's beautiful tribute to her worth: "I never yet saw a missionary's wife whose companionship did not double her husband's usefulness. I have known more than one whose face, as the years of life increase took on that charm, that wondrous beauty that youthful features never wear, the beauty of character, disciplined by suffering, of a life unselfishly devoted to the highest ends. One of the choicest things of missionary work is the unwritten heroism of missionary homes. It is the missionary's wife who, by years of endurance and acquired experience in the foreign field, has made it possible, in these later years, for unmarried women to go abroad and live and work among the people of eastern lands."

When a young man or woman has once settled the burning question: Is it my duty and privilege to go as a missionary? and has become fully pledged to that service, there is an intense desire to get to the scene of action as soon as possible; to enter upon the grand work of proclaiming Christ where He has not been named.

We had not long been in our new home before Burmans, both Christian and heathen, began to call to see the new teachers. They evidently wanted to welcome us as their missionaries; and we, in turn, wanted them to know that love for them, for whom Christ died, had brought us among them. But how helpless we felt! An exchange of smiles, a hand-shake, a few words that neither party could understand—that was all.

We found ourselves utterly powerless to communicate to them one word of all that was burning—had been burning for years, in our hearts. Then it was that the fact fully dawned upon us that before we could hope to do effectively the work to which we had consecrated our lives, a difficult foreign language must be mastered; that we must keep our consecration warm, from the A B C of a strange tongue until the time when, through the medium of that tongue we could tell "the story of Jesus and His love." First in order then, is to get right down to hard boning on the language of the people among whom the missionary is to labour. He who fails to gain a strong hold on the language during the first year, will labour under a disadvantage through all the years of missionary service. Burdens are thrust upon him more than enough to consume all his time and strength. Hundreds of villages in his large district furnish a strong appeal to postpone study.

The climate soon begins to effect him so that he seems to lose the power to study. Inheriting a large organized work he is forced at once into service as a full-fledged missionary, before a pin-feather of experience has had time to start. Interruptions are frequent and unavoidable. How to find time for language study is indeed a serious problem—but he must find it, if his life is to tell for Christ, at its best. Moreover, the missionary must master practically two languages before he is fully equipped for service—the language of the book, and the language of the people. The formal style of classical Burmese would be as out of place in the jungle as the colloquial Burmese would be in the pulpit. In the one case it would not be understood, in the other it would give offense—for one may not "talk down" to even a native audience. Hence, to be effective the missionary must at the same time be faithful to study, and to real contact with the people. It is no easy matter, after one has struggled through all the years of training in the home-land, thumbing Latin, Greek, and Hebrew Lexicons until he fondly thinks that his training has been completed—to get right down again to the A B C of a new language. Here he meets something, that will test the soundness of his consecration and of his staying qualities. From first to last our great missionaries have been men who have thoroughly mastered the language of their people. But it is perfectly wonderful how the natives will listen respectfully to the most laborious attempts to speak to them in their own tongue. Not a smile at the most ridiculous mistakes, not a word or sign to indicate that they are not really understanding what you are driving at. This excessive respect sometimes leads to serious consequences. The missionary, thinking that he has made himself understood, is disappointed and hindered because things do not come to pass. The native is not wanting a sense of humour, and if he feels sure that you will enjoy the joke, he will point out the mistake, and join in the laugh over it.

Unlike other languages of Burma, the construction of a Burmese sentence is the reverse of the English order. Many sentences may be translated backward, word for word, certain connective particles becoming relative pronouns, with a perfect idiomatic English sentence as the result. The eye can soon be trained to take in a printed sentence as a whole, and grasp its meaning, without stopping to render it into English in the reversed order. But to keep this order in mind, in conversation, with the word expressing action left for the last, like the snapper to a whip, is not so easy. In acquiring the language by ear a difficulty arises from the universal habit of kun-chewing. Never careful about enunciating his words, a wad of kun in a Burman's cheek adds to the confusion of sounds. With mouth half full of saliva, chin protruding to keep it from slopping over—a mumbled jargon is what the ear must be trained to interpret as human speech.

By this time the newcomer has seen enough of the climate, and of the side of society in which he will move, to convince him that his Prince Albert coat, in which he has been accustomed to array himself "every day in the week, and twice on Sunday" must be folded away in his trunk until such a time as he takes a furlough in the home-land. A fellow-missionary consoles him with the remark that he once wore back to America the same coat that he wore to Burma eight years before. Missionaries usually arrive in November, the beginning of the "cold season." After that comes the "hot season,"—but it is difficult to tell just where the one leaves off and the other begins.

In any event, the newcomer soon "warms to his work." First the waistcoat is discarded, then the long thick coat gives place to a short thin one. For underwear, gauze flannel and singlets are in demand. Starched shirts and linen collars are reserved for special occasions. High-top shoes are relegated to the corner-closet. Even his watch hangs as an uncomfortable weight in his light clothing. In the old life he hardly perspired once in the year. Now there is hardly once in the year when he is not perspiring. The drinking-water is so warm that it seems to have lost much of its wetness. What would he not give to feel cool again. But he has not long to wait for his wish to be more than realized. Some night, after fanning himself into a restless sleep, he will wake up in a chill, to find himself in the throes of the Burma fever, to which he was "not subject." Then he will recall the lightly-regarded advice, repeatedly violated in every particular, and now—— As this is the first attack he will get his wife to treat him the first day with the homeopathic remedies in his morocco medicine case—his last misguided purchase before sailing.

There is nothing better to perpetuate a fever. On the second day, having recalled some more advice, his head will be buzzing with quinine, the only thing that will really help him—as every man in the tropics knows.