On the Irrawaddy March 2 Dearest Mother. We had prepared everything for the night before we arrived at Myingyan, made our beds, had our dinner, for we got in very late. But the station master would not hear of it. The road, said he, was very bad, the ferry started at dawn, we must certainly get down to the river that night. Was there a place to sleep, said we. "For the purpose of sleeping" replied a Hindu bystander gravely "there is an excellent place on the ferry boat." So we packed ourselves and our baggage into two bullock carts and jolted off in the black dark - not even a star - through the village where the people were sitting together in their open houses and smoking cheroots. The village street looked mysteriously interesting in the night, the little bamboo houses glinted with oil lights and the trees hung darkly over the road. Presently with a lurch, we turned down a sandy lane and passed out into thicker darkness. There was no sound but the creaking of our wheels and the groaning of the bullocks as they laboured through the deep sand. We went on and on for an hour, passed a house and stopped - nowhere in particular. One sprang up out of the dark and said something in Burmese. We took it that he wished to show us the way to the excellent sleeping place, got out and followed him. He led us along a very steep hill of loose sand, which we presently discovered to be the bank of the Irrawaddy. We could just see some barges moored and at last we came to a very small steam boat. We said "To Pakukku [Pakokku]?" very loud and clear and our guides - there were by this time several of them - seemed to assent. A steep and slippery plank led out to the boat. I took my courage and my topi in both hands, crept along it, lifted the awning, and received a broadside of the hottest, oiliest, most machinery laden air, resonant with the snores of sleepers. I lit a match and found that I was on a tiny deck covered with the sheeted dead, who, however, presently sat up on their elbows and blinked at me. I announced firmly in Urdu that I would not move until I was shown somewhere to sleep. After much grumbling and protestations that there was no place to sleep there (which indeed was obvious) one arose and lit a lantern; together we sidled down the plank and he took us back to one of the mysterious hulks by the river bank. It was inhabited by an old Hindu and a bicycle and many cockroaches. We woke the Hindu, and at the suggestion of our guide, he climbed a stair, unlocked a trap door, and took us onto an upper deck where, oddly enough, there were deck cabins with bunks in them. In these we made our beds - it was now 11.30 - and went to sleep. What the place was we haven't to this hour the least idea, but we believe it to have been Maya, pure illusion, for directly we left, it hid itself behind another barge, which was not there before, and has been no more seen. Next morning we caught the small and smelly ferry, and in company with a party of Burmese, steamed down the river to Pakukku where we arrived about 10. There we found the amiable agent of the Irrawaddi [Irrawaddy] Flotilla Co had engaged a Burmese boat to take us down to Nyaungu. H [Hugo] and I lay luxuriously under a bamboo awning, head to tail, the boat was so narrow we couldn't lie side by side, propped up on bedding bags, supplemented our very scanty breakfast and went to sleep, lazily dropping down the stream. When we woke we were near Nyaungu. We went down a little further, undecided where to land, and had to punt up against the stream, which gave us time to observe the amusing river life of an Irrawaddy town. There were great rafts of teak logs coming down the river, with a village of bamboo huts on them - poles flying long streamers of paper on bamboo frames stuck, upright by the huts, and there were fishers netting the excellent fish of the Irrawaddy (for which they and we, the eaters of it, will spend several million years in the lowest Hell) and {the} lovely barges of teak wood with very high carved sterns and upturned prows, like huge gondolas. We landed close to our Dak Bungalow, in a grove of palm trees. The DB was enchanting, a little house of teak on top of a hill, with wide verandahs from which we could see Nyaungu with its trees and gold pagodas and seven roofed monasteries, and the wide sweep of the Irrawaddy and, far away, the countless ruined piles of the pagodas of Pagahn [Pagan]. H. said (and it was quite true) that it looked like a distant view of Oxford. There was still time before dark to explore the village. An enchanting place is a Burmese village. The streets were all of clean river sand, the bamboo houses, which are chiefly made of bamboo matting and roofed with big leaves, were set well back to give room for the trees which turned the village ways into charming avenues of green and all round the outskirts there was a ring of monasteries and pagodas. I came back through the monasteries in the dusk. Each group stands within its own wooden pailing, a white and gold pagoda or two with immense brick and paster [sic] dog things guarding the approach, and the monastic buildings of carved teak, raised on high piles, carved balconies, carved eves and here and there a pointed, seven roofed spire hung with little Bells. A yellow robed monk slipping along the red brown gallery or stepping down the carved stair, a company of palm trees and some sweet scented flowering shrubs, and what more could you want? We, however, being hungry travellers, wanted a mutton chop and could get nothing but fish and eggs and chickens, very tough and unsatisfactory chickens, which appeared as soup and roast and stew and curry, and were still nothing but meagre chicken. But we were glad to be sleeping in a nice Dak Bungalow and not in a phantom barge. Next morning we started at 7 and drove off in a bullock cart to Pagahn. It is one of the many ancient capitals, deserted in the 13th cent. and it now consists of some 9000 pagodas, more or less ruined, a tiny fishing village and a few monasteries. We took about an hour getting there - bullock carts don't go very fast through Irrawaddy sand. On the outskirts we came to an immense ruined pagoda made of brick and elaborate plaster work all falling off. We got out and walked through scrub and thorns covered with strange flowers, into galleries full of Buddhas set in niches and up a broken stair to the top of the great shrine, from whence the tall spire rose up in many storeys. There we looked out over the town of pagodas, 8 miles' stretch of them, a curve of the Irawaddi bending round and faint hills beyond. It was very curious and wonderful. We went on to the biggest of all the pagodas, which is kept in repair and has monasteries and palm trees round it. There are 4 porches to the huge pyramid of brick and plaster and in each a colossal gold Buddha, the 4 Buddhas of the present era. Cunningly contrived openings high up in the wall throw the light onto the great gold faces, calm and expressionless golden masks shining in the gloom of the shrines. The next pagoda had one shrine only, high up on the first platform and here we established ourselves comfortably on the shady side of the gallery, sent for our bullock cart and lunched. There was a cool wind and a magnificent view and a great gold Buddha nice and handy. I walked down into the village after that, the sun was blazing hot though it was only 11. The dogs in Burma [(Myanmar)] are beasts. As soon as you get into a village they all begin to bark and they don't leave off till you are out of sight. But they don't bite - it's only pe-tence [sic]. There was a great function going forward on the river. They were launching a raft on which there was a bamboo and paper elephant the size of life and 3 little white elephants. The whole village was hanging them with streamers and flowers and umbrellas to the sound of cymbals and one, who spoke Urdu, told me it was to float down to the sea. I wish we had seen that strange craft rowing down the river and sticking on the sand banks. I strolled back and watched the processes of Burmese lacquer making, which was rather amusing, and so into the monasteries where I was haled [sic] by an old monk on a balcony who begged me, by signs and gestures, to come up and take a picture of the pagoda. The carved doors at the top of the staircase were thrown open for me and I went in and sat down on the wicker floor and was given something sweet to eat out of a saucer. By great good luck a little monk appeared who had a smattering of English. I explained to him that I would go and fetch my brother and that we would then take pictures. We had the funniest visit. The monks haven't enjoyed anything so much for a long time; they laughed till their yellow robes fell off their bare shoulders. We all sat cross legged together under the carved roofs and discussed our various ages and the price of Hugo's watch, while an immense concourse of children gathered round closer and closer. I was of no account at all when Hugo appeared, until it came to the picture taking. We had to drive the children away while I photographed the monks but, at my friend's request, I then took a consolation picture of all the children sitting in a row. The camera may be a horrid modern invention, but it's a universal letter of credit in strange parts. H. questioned the little monk closely as to what he did all day. He replied blandly "Nothing!" One of them was sewing the silk wrapper of a Pali book. They showed us the books, palm leaf books written in gold lacquer, and we made the monk read us a sonorous Pali sentence. He asked us if we could understand and we were obliged to admit that we couldn't, but I don't think he could either. We explored the whole monastery; it had no furniture in it but a few lacquer bowls and a raised platform for the old monk's bed, but it was all deliciously cool and clean. A big room with lacquer walls was the chapel. There was a gold Buddha in it and lovely triangular gongs and big chests of old gold lacquer, very handsome. The little monk took us into a second monastery where we found an extremely old party in yellow asleep on a charpoy. He was enchanted to see us, however, and had all the doors opened that we might see the frescoes on the walls. H. taught the little monk to shake hands when we came away, but he wouldn't shake hands with me. He oughtn't even to have looked at me according to the rules of the order. We drove home in the bullock cart and had a deliciously peaceful evening in our D.B., and a chicken dinner. Next day, Sunday, we got up before day break and went down to the village to see the monks go begging for their breakfast. It was too pretty, the long procession of shaven, yellow robed figures going from door to door and stopping at the accustomed places till someone ran out and filled their begging bowls with rice. Our steamer came in at 9.30, just as we had finished breakfast. She is most comfortable and agreeably empty so that we have big cabins to ourselves. We found an Oxford friend of Hugo's on board, a Mr Mayhew, and at Pakkaku there appeared a Colleger whom H. knew by name, Mr CaBell. The only other passengers are two tea planters who were on our steamer from Calcutta. The river is at its lowest at this time of year and extremely difficult to navigate. We stuck on a sand bank about 5 in the afternoon and remained there all night. There a were quite incredible number of flying and creeping beasts! We played Bridge over their corpses. Mr Mayhew and Mr CaBell got off this morning at Myingyan, which we ought to have reached last night. We do pray we shan't stick again as we have very little time in Mandalay as it is. Mandalay 4th. [4 March 1903] No, we didn't stick again, but it was too late to get into Mandalay on Monday evening, so we anchored just off Ava and came in early on Tuesday morning. We had the social evening on board the steamer. The Captain has been in Burma [(Myanmar)] a long time and journeyed up and down the Irrawaddy long before the annexation and even during the war. (The Irrawaddy Flotilla Co. were the pioneers out here and but for them, and the interests they represented, we should probably never have annexed Burma at all.) He told us tales of Theebaw's time and the little ways of Queen Supya Lat, who was not a pleasant lady, and of the rows of corpses laid out for identification when they had had a petit massacre de famille. Also of how he ran down from Mandalay after the declaration of war and how the Burmans caught and crucified his pilot - which is not taking life, you understand for if a man will insist on dying when you nail him up on a post, you can't prevent him. We ended the evening with songs from the Belle of New York, to Hugo's accompaniment and he and I agreed afterwards that they are the most distasteful songs in the world. When we had established ourselves in our hotel and had breakfast, we went off to see Theebaw's palace. The Mandalay of his time was a walled city with a big moat round it and the palace in a stockade in the middle. The wall, which is of brick and battlemented, has most enchanting seven roofed spires along it, over the gates and on bastions. The moat is 100 ft wide, full of waterlilies and the reflections of the spires. All this enclosure was cleared out after the occupation; only the palace and some pagodas remain, and, scattered over the empty space, are the houses of English officials and the cantonments. The palace is of teak, heavily gilt with gold leaf - we have just done it up at a cost of 5 lakhs of rupees. There are big halls with high roofs on teak columns, decorated with a mosaic of gold and coloured glass, and in the centre of all, under a 7 roofed spire (which is the centre of the world, you must know) is Theebaw's lion throne. Until the annexation, however, no European was allowed into the great hall of audience. Our Resident was received in a smaller hall, the floor of which was stuck full of nails, point upwards, so that he might approach the king with fitting circumspection. There is a little pavilion in the garden on which is a brass tablet saying that here Theebaw and his 2 queens and his mother in law surrendered. It is very hot in the middle of the day; we had to come in at 12 and didn't go out till 4. Then we drove off to the Arrakan Pagoda, which is one of the most sacred in Burma. It contains a colossal bronze Buddha, a portrait statue executed in the Master's lifetime, they declare - I don't think the likeness can have been a flattering one. It was made in 2 bits which wouldn't join together until Sakya Muni clasped them in his arms. He must have had a reach which would have made his fortune as a rock climber. There are bazaars all round full of monks and gong sellers. H. bought a whole orchestra of musical instruments from a gentleman almost naked except for a pair of spectacles. He looked quite tidy, however, for his legs down to the knee were exquisitely tatooed in blue. He might have had on a pair of beautifully fitting blue brocade breeches. Our tastes then drew us irrestably [sic] to the monasteries where we spent a happy twilight hour walking about on guilded balconies and teaching the monks the names, in English, of the beasts carved upon their doors. They can't pronounce the consonants at the end of our words - but we can't pronounce the consonants at the beginning of theirs, so we're quits. H. had an early dinner and went off at 7 by train, as he'll tell you. I dined with Mr Warren and his daughter (the Warrens are here because 2 of their sons have developed measles, poor things.) We rather like Mr Warren, but we don't think we'll go and stay with them in Something Pa. on our way through America. (By the way will you please tell Lisa when next you write that we particularly want to see Raymond in Chicago and she must send us his address.) I was very keen to see some dancing and sent my servants to enquire if any was going on. They have what are called pwäs, which are theatricals out of doors, which we longed to see, but unfortunately they only have them on moonlight nights. Ah Lu came back and said there wasn't a pwä anywhere, but there was a dance going on and two men in the hotel had been invited to it and I might go too. Oh yes! the hotel proprietor said. Certainly. He would ask the gentlemen. Presently a message came that they would be delighted if I would come and would I like to bring anyone. So I invited Mr Warren and off we went. One of the two was a Chinaman! His name is Mr Tor Shin Ko and he is the govt. archaeologist and a very learned man. I had heard of his fame and was much amused to find myself in his company. The dance was in the house of a charming old Burman who had been Theebaw's private secretary. He and his sons in law made us very welcome. We marched up an outer staircase and found ourselves in a wooden upper room, carpeted with bamboo matting, at one end of which were 4 chairs and a table with fruit on it. Here we sat, while our host and his family disposed themselves on the mats and the ladies of the family lay on the floor of the next room and put their heads through the doorway, smoking cheroots, need I say. They were in the fullest Burmese dress, silk petticoats, white linen jackets, ruby and diamond combs in their hair and their faces thickly covered with a sweet smelling flour with which all Burmese ladies powder themselves. I begged to make their acquaintance and they came and shook hands with me, soft little boneless Oriental hands they had. Then the entertainment began. There were some 10 musicians in pink petticoats and with pink silk scarves round their heads. They played on penny whistles, a long boat shaped instrument with wooden keys which you strike with gong hammers, a delicious Burmese harp, in shape exactly like the old Egyptian harps, and an allegator [sic] harp, which is a 3 stringed instrument shaped like a stumpy allegator, head and all. The music was very agreeable, rather monotonous - a little like the less melodious parts of longuer! Every now and then the wooden keyed instruments burst into a charming accompaniment of soft triplets and arpeggios. There were 2 dancing girls. They wore their skirts sewn down so tight that they were like a single trouser. One was in pink and blue, and the other in yellow and pink. Their coats were wired out with sticking out points at either side of the back, like little pink and blue wings; they had quantities of chains round their necks and glittering combs and pink flowers in their hair, and their brown faces were powdered quite white. The dancing was of course posturing; a great deal depended on the wrists and finger joints. They turned their boneless little hands inside out, their incredibly slight bodies assuming, meantime, attitudes directly contrary to the laws of anatomy. While they danced they sang in high nasal voices. Their subject was love and the charms of the sex - Mr Tor Shin Ko translated rapidly for our benefit. The rest of the spectators sat on the mats behind the musicians - one was a stark naked infant of about 2 who ought to have been asleep, I should say. The next item was a piece upon the allegator harp played by one gentleman while a second sang an air about the topographical beauties of Burma and the excellence of the climate, but in so genteel a manner that the song was half over before I had discovered the singer's existence. As in Europe, we talked all the time the music was going on. During an interval I asked whether our host had not some of his old court dresses; whereupon he produced a mass of wonderful velvet and gold costumes which he and his daughters proceeded to put on. The very prettiest was that of the wife of a minister. It was a long robe reaching Bellow the knees, heavily embroidered in gold and green and round the neck hung golden stoles, before and behind, finished with bits of gold embroidery wired out into half moons. Behind, they stuck out so far that they looked like the enormous tail of some sort of bird and the little lady wore a high peaked gold helmet on her head, like a cock's comb, and as she stood turning her tiny self round for me to see, she was for all the world like a fantastic golden bird, Sindbad's Reek, or some fairy tale creature that would fly away if one looked too hard. They showed me, too, the insignia of the minister's rank, a heavy gold spittoon (much needed!) a golden bowl and an immense golden extinguisher to cover the minister's drinking jar. He had, too, the 9 fold chain of his rank fastened by 4 clasps of red gold, very handsome. "A 12 stringed chain was sent to Mr Gladstone - I wonder what he did with it" said the unknown man. "Mr Morley will tell us that" replied the Chinaman cheerfully. You might have knocked me down with one of the Burmese lady's tail feather's - it was surprising wasn't it? I remembered the last time I had talked of John Morley's Life of Mr G. in the Blacks' drawing room at Hind Head. And now with Tor Shin Ko. The entertainment then continued de plus Bell. During the interlude the dancers had been smoking enormous cheroots. One retired to appear as a boy, said our host with delight. The change was not overwhelming for instead of one tight trouser she now wore skirts rather voluminous in front. For all that, she did look like a boy, rather cleverly; she walked and moved with a masculine air. The {next} piece was a dialogue in which the young lady accused the young man of the faithfulness of his sex and remarked that the first love was seldom the last, to which he replied somewhat tritely - indeed the whole discussion lacked originality! It went on and on and at 11.30, fortified by seeing that some of the Burmese audience had "one by one slipped silently to rest" I sounded my companions as to the possibility of going. They agreed, Tor Shin Ko saying blandly that the song would go on till 5 AM anyway, so we bowed ourselves out. "No, they don't like your rule much" said the Chinaman in answer to a question of mine "they find it so very dull. They miss the excitement of the old days." It sounds true. They liked the shows - the functions, the royal pwäs, the King's durbars where you could wear your gold embroidered cloths, and the King's orchestras going up and down the city moat all night long in the royal barges. You weren't very sure you would be alive tomorrow, but anyway you were enjoying yourself thoroughly today and no one could tell that you mightn't at any moment, be given a seven stranded gold chain. They like a little fun and a little crucifixion, specially as it might always be the other man who was crucified. And now they're dull, poor little dears. But it's rather comic to think of our coming along with law and order where everyone so much preferred misrule and tyranny, and congratulating ourselves upon rescuing a people who hadn't the slightest desire to be rescued. It had to come. If we had not annexed Upper Burma, France would have had it a year of two later - the scheme was all ready - and it was too near India to be held by a big power. Besides, we had poured too much money and blood into the Irrawaddy. Still, though it had to come, we won't put the annexation on humanitarian grounds. This morning, as I drove through the palace at dawn, and watched the tall Sikhs of our army parading under the shadow of the Centre of the Universe, I wondered what Theebaw thought of it all and whether, every morning, he remembered the golden dawn touching his golden spires in Mandalay. I drove to the bottom of Mandalay Hill and walked to the top 1000 ft or so, by paths leading past countless white pagodas, and saw, through the heat haze, the city Bellow me with its moats and walls and spires, and all the clustered monastery roofs, and to the east high mountains which were quite close really, but hazy and misty with the coming heat. The wind blew fresh on Mandalay Hill, the delicious freshness that comes on about 2 in the morning. The hottest time of all, I think, is from 5 to 8 PM; it's absolutely still and the earth radiates all the heat of the day. Going to sleep, one feels the dense canopy of heat fall[?] upon one. All the inhabitants being in the habit of smoking ragged cigars and all the buildings being of wood, says you, why don't they burn? They do, says I, constantly. The monasteries burn worst, being biggest. It's very sad to drive out to see a famous great hall and find nothing but charred teak stumps. On my way to the station I went to the Plague Officer with my Plague pass. I said I feared my paper was not quite in order (it had been signed two days out of the 8!) but I had been travelling about etc. I needn't have troubled, for the doctor man was quite grovelling - so good of me to come, I really needn't have bothered as I had so little time and so on. Mind, I had promised to appear every day for 10 days! After this I have troubled no more. The train was awfully full. H. got in in the middle of the night and had to travel in the guard's van. His companion in misfortune was Major Hanbury, who was in the Scots Guards. She came into my compartment. They are nice people. They're coming on our boat. We got to Rangoon [Yangon] on Thursday morning and found to our relief that the boat didn't sail till Friday afternoon. And then it only goes to Penang [Pinang]. However we mean to get on somehow. Sir Frank Swettenham has asked us to stay at Govt. House in Singapore, so all is well. We went out to tea with the Lowises - she is a Miss Hill, daughter of a quondam vicar of Redcar, whom I can't remember though I rack my brains. So we conversed about Bo Duff! You may imagine my stock of thoughts on that topic soon ran out. He's a charming little man, a keen intelligent little lawyer, caring for the country and the people and flowers. We breakfasted there this morning; it was very pleasant. We dined last night with the Whites - Sir Herbert White. They have a daughter who is a favourite pupil of Joachim's. It was amusing, very odd people, the oddest being the wife of a Scotch clergyman, a dyed and painted and jolly lady, not strictly clerical. Sir H. is agreeable. Now we're off so goodbye. We've not got our mail this week as it has gone to Singapore. Ever your affectionate daughter Gertrude