‘You are thirty-five, thakin,’ said Ko S’la
politely
but firmly.
Orwell - Burmese Days
An extraordinary joie de vivre had come over them all as soon as the shaky feeling
departed from their legs. An earthquake is such fun when it is over. It is so exhilarating to
reflect that you are not, as you well might be, lying dead under a heap of ruins. With one
accord they all burst out talking: ‘My dear, I’ve never HAD such a shock — I fell
absolutely FLAT on my back — I thought it was a dam’ pariah dog scratching itself under
the floor — I thought it must be an explosion somewhere — ’ and so on and so forth; the
usual earthquake-chatter. Even the butler was included in the conversation.
‘I expect you can remember ever so many earthquakes can’t you butler? ’ said Mrs
Lackersteen, quite graciously, for her.
‘Oh yes, madam, many earthquakes! 1887, 1899, 1906, 1912 — many, many I can
remember, madam! ’
‘The 1912 one was a biggish one,’ Flory said.
‘Oh, sir, but 1906 was bigger! Very bad shock, sir! And big heathen idol in the temple
fall down on top of the thathanabaing, that is Buddhist bishop, madam, which the
Burmese say mean bad omen for failure of paddy crop and foot-and-mouth disease. Also
in 1887 my first earthquake I remember, when I was a little chokra, and Major Maclagan
sahib was lying under the table and promising he sign the teetotal pledge tomorrow
morning. He not know it was an earthquake. Also two cows was killed by falling roofs,’
etc. , etc.
The Europeans stayed in the Club till midnight, and the butler popped into the room as
many as half a dozen times, to relate a new anecdote. So far from snubbing him, the
Europeans even encouraged him to talk. There is nothing like an earthquake for drawing
people together. One more tremor, or perhaps two, and they would have asked the butler
to sit down at table with them.
Meanwhile, Flory’s proposal went no further. One cannot propose marriage immediately
after an earthquake. In any case, he did not see Elizabeth alone for the rest of that
evening. But it did not matter, he knew that she was his now. In the morning there would
be time enough. On this thought, at peace in his mind, and dog-tired after the long day, he
went to bed.
CHAPTER 16
The vultures in the big pyinkado trees by the cemetery flapped from their dung-whitened
branches, steadied themselves on the wing, and climbed by vast spirals into the upper air.
It was early, but Flory was out already. He was going down to the Club, to wait until
Elizabeth came and then ask her formally to marry him. Some instinct, which he did not
understand, prompted him to do it before the other Europeans returned from the jungle.
As he came out of the compound gate he saw that there was a new arrival at Kyauktada.
A youth with a long spear like a needle in his hand was cantering across the maidan on a
white pony. Some Sikhs, looking like sepoys, ran after him, leading two other ponies, a
bay and a chestnut, by the bridle. When he came level with him Flory halted on the road
and shouted good morning. He had not recognized the youth, but it is usual in small
stations to make strangers welcome. The other saw that he was hailed, wheeled his pony
negligently round and brought it to the side of the road. He was a youth of about twenty-
live, lank but very straight, and manifestly a cavalry officer. He had one of those rabbit-
like faces common among English soldiers, with pale blue eyes and a little triangle of
fore-teeth visible between the lips; yet hard, fearless and even brutal in a careless
fashion — a rabbit, perhaps, but a tough and martial rabbit. He sat his horse as though he
were part of it, and he looked offensively young and fit. His fresh face was tanned to the
exact shade that went with his light-coloured eyes, and he was as elegant as a picture with
his white buckskin topi and his polo-boots that gleamed like an old meerschaum pipe.
Flory felt uncomfortable in his presence from the start.
‘How d’you do? ’ said Flory. ‘Have you just arrived? ’
‘Last night, got in by the late train. ’ He had a surly, boyish voice. ‘I’ve been sent up here
with a company of men to stand by in case your local bad-mashes start any trouble. My
name’s Verrall — Military Police,’ he added, not, however, inquiring Flory’s name in
return.
‘Oh yes. We heard they were sending somebody. Where are you putting up? ’
‘Dak bungalow, for the time being. There was some black beggar staying there when I
got in last night — Excise Officer or something. I booted him out. This is a filthy hole,
isn’t it? ’ he said with a backward movement of his head, indicating the whole of
Kyauktada.
‘I suppose it’s like the rest of these small stations. Are you staying long? ’
‘Only a month or so, thank God. Till the rains break. What a rotten maidan you’ve got
here, haven’t you? Pity they can’t keep this stuff cut,’ he added, swishing the dried-up
grass with the point of his spear. ‘Makes it so hopeless for polo or anything. ’
‘I’m afraid you won’t get any polo here,’ Flory said. ‘Tennis is the best we can manage.
There are only eight of us all told, and most of us spend three-quarters of our time in the
jungle. ’
‘Christ! What a hole! ’
After this there was a silence. The tall, bearded Sikhs stood in a group round their horses’
heads, eyeing Flory without much favour. It was perfectly clear that Verral was bored
with the conversation and wanted to escape. Flory had never in his life felt so completely
de trop, or so old and shabby. He noticed that Verrall’s pony was a beautiful Arab, a
mare, with proud neck and arching, plume-like tail; a lovely milk-white thing, worth
several thousands of rupees. Verrall had already twitched the bridle to turn away,
evidently feeling that he had talked enough for one morning.
‘That’s a wonderful pony of yours,’ Flory said.
‘She’s not bad, better than these Burma scrubs. I’ve come out to do a bit of tent-pegging.
It’s hopeless trying to knock a polo ball about in this muck. Hey, Hira Singh! ’ he called,
and turned his pony away.
The sepoy holding the bay pony handed his bridle to a companion, ran to a spot forty
yards away, and fixed a narrow boxwood peg in the ground. Verral took no further notice
of Flory. He raised his spear and poised himself as though taking aim at the peg, while
the Indians backed their horses out of the way and stood watching critically. With a just
perceptible movement Verrall dug his knees into the pony’s sides. She bounded forward
like a bullet from a catapult. As easily as a centaur the lank, straight youth leaned over in
the saddle, lowered his spear and plunged it clean through the peg. One of the Indians
muttered gruffly ‘Shabash! ’ Verrall raised his spear behind him in the orthodox fashion,
and then, pulling his horse to a canter, wheeled round and handed the transfixed peg to
the sepoy.
Verrall rode twice more at the peg, and hit it each time. It was done with matchless grace
and with extraordinary solemnity. The whole group of men, Englishman and Indians,
were concentrated upon the business of hitting the peg as though it had been a religious
ritual. Flory still stood watching, disregarded — VerralFs face was one of those that are
specially constructed for ignoring unwelcome strangers — but from the very fact that he
had been snubbed unable to tear himself away. Somehow, Verrall had filled him with a
horrible sense of inferiority. He was trying to think of some pretext for renewing the
conversation, when he looked up the hillside and saw Elizabeth, in pale blue, coming out
of her uncle’s gate. She must have seen the third transfixing of the peg. His heart stirred
painfully. A thought occurred to him, one of those rash thoughts that usually lead to
trouble. He called to Verrall, who was a few yards away from him, and pointed with his
stick.
‘Do these other two know how to do it? ’
Verrall looked over his shoulder with a surly air. He had expected Flory to go away after
being ignored.
‘What? ’
‘Can these other two do it? ’ Flory repeated.
‘The chestnut’s not bad. Bolts if you let him, though. ’
‘Let me have a shot at the peg, would you? ’
‘All right,’ said Verrall ungraciously. ‘Don’t go and cut his mouth to bits. ’
A sepoy brought the pony, and Flory pretended to examine the curb-chain. In reality he
was temporizing until Elizabeth should be thirty or forty yards away. He made up his
mind that he would stick the peg exactly at the moment when she passed (it is easy
enough on the small Burma ponies, provided that they will gallop straight), and then ride
up to her with it on his point. That was obviously the right move. He did not want her to
think that that pink-faced young whelp was the only person who could ride. He was
wearing shorts, which are uncomfortable to ride in, but he knew that, like nearly
everyone, he looked his best on horseback.
Elizabeth was approaching. Flory stepped into the saddle, took the spear from the Indian
and waved it in greeting to Elizabeth. She made no response, however. Probably she was
shy in front of Verrall. She was looking away, towards the cemetery, and her cheeks were
pink.
‘Chalo,’ said Flory to the Indian, and then dug his knees into the horse’s sides.
The very next instant, before the horse had taken to bounds, Flory found himself hurtling
through the air, hitting the ground with a crack that wrenched his shoulder almost out of
joint, and rolling over and over. Mercifully the spear fell clear of him. He lay supine, with
a blurred vision of blue sky and floating vultures. Then his eyes focused on the khaki
pagri and dark face of a Sikh, bearded to the eyes, bending over him.
‘What’s happened? ’ he said in English, and he raised himself painfully on his elbow. The
Sikh made some gruff answer and pointed. Flory saw the chestnut pony careering away
over the maidan, with the saddle under its belly. The girth had not been tightened, and
had slipped round; hence his fall.
When Flory sat up he found that he was in extreme pain. The right shoulder of his shirt
was torn open and already soaking with blood, and he could feel more blood oozing from
his cheek. The hard earth had grazed him. His hat, too, was gone. With a deadly pang he
remembered Elizabeth, and he saw her coming towards him, barely ten yards away,
looking straight at him as he sprawled there so ignominiously. My God, my God! he
thought, O my God, what a fool I must look! The thought of it even drove away the pain
of the fall. He clapped a hand over his birth-mark, though the other cheek was the
damaged one.
‘Elizabeth! Hullo, Elizabeth! Good morning! ’
He had called out eagerly, appealingly, as one does when one is conscious of looking a
fool. She did not answer, and what was almost incredible, she walked on without pausing
even for an instant, as though she had neither seen nor heard him.
‘Elizabeth! ’ he called again, taken aback; ‘did you see my fall? The saddle slipped. The
fool of a sepoy hadn’t — ’
There was no question that she had heard him now. She turned her face full upon him for
a moment, and looked at him and through him as though he had not existed. Then she
gazed away into the distance beyond the cemetery. It was terrible. He called after her in
dismay —
‘Elizabeth! I say, Elizabeth! ’
She passed on without a word, without a sign, without a look. She was walking sharply
down the road, with a click of heels, her back turned upon him.
The sepoys had come round him now, and Verrall, too, had ridden across to where Flory
lay. Some of the sepoys had saluted Elizabeth; Verrall had ignored her, perhaps not
seeing her. Flory rose stiffly to his feet. He was badly bruised, but no bones were broken.
The Indians brought him his hat and stick, but they did not apologize for their
carelessness. They looked faintly contemptuous, as though thinking that he had only got
what he deserved. It was conceivable that they had loosened the girth on purpose.
‘The saddle slipped,’ said Flory in the weak, stupid way that one does at such moments.
‘Why the devil couldn’t you look at it before you got up? ’ said Verrall briefly. ‘You
ought to know these beggars aren’t to be trusted. ’
Having said which he twitched his bridle and rode away, feeling the incident closed. The
sepoys followed him without saluting Flory. When Flory reached his gate he looked back
and saw that the chestnut pony had already been caught and re-saddled, and Verrall was
tent-pegging upon it.
The fall had so shaken him that even now he could hardly collect his thoughts. What
could have made her behave like that? She had seen him lying bloody and in pain, and
she had walked past him as though he had been a dead dog. How could it have happened?
HAD it happened? It was incredible. Could she be angry with him? Could he have
offended her in any way? All the servants were waiting at the compound fence. They had
come out to watch the tent-pegging, and every one of them had seen his bitter
humiliation. Ko S’la ran part of the way down the hill to meet him, with concerned face.
‘The god has hurt himself? Shall I carry the god back to the house? ’
‘No,’ said the god. ‘Go and get me some whisky and a clean shirt. ’
When they got back to the house Ko S’la made Flory sit down on the bed and peeled off
his torn shirt which the blood had stuck to his body. Ko S’la clicked his tongue.
‘Ah ma lay? These cuts are full of dirt. You ought not to play these children’s games on
strange ponies, thakin. Not at your age. It is too dangerous. ’
‘The saddle slipped,’ Flory said.
‘Such games,’ pursued Ko S’la, ‘are all very well for the young police officer. But you
are no longer young, thakin. A fall hurts at your age. You should take more care of
yourself. ’
‘Do you take me for an old man? ’ said Flory angrily. His shoulder was smarting
abominably.
‘You are thirty-five, thakin,’ said Ko S’la politely but firmly.
It was all very humiliating. Ma Pu and Ma Yi, temporarily at peace, had brought a pot of
some dreadful mess which they declared was good for cuts. Flory told Ko S’la privately
to throw it out of the window and substitute boracic ointment. Then, while he sat in a
tepid bath and Ko S’la sponged the dirt out of his grazes, he puzzled helplessly, and, as
his head grew clearer, with a deeper and deeper dismay, over what had happened. He had
offended her bitterly, that was clear. But, when he had not even seen her since last night,
how COULD he have offended her? And there was no even plausible answer.
He explained to Ko S’la several times over that his fall was due to the saddle slipping.
But Ko S’la, though sympathetic, clearly did not believe him. To the end of his days,
Flory perceived, the fall would be attributed to his own bad horsemanship. On the other
hand, a fortnight ago, he had won undeserved renown by putting to flight the harmless
buffalo. Fate is even-handed, after a fashion.
CHAPTER 17
Flory did not see Elizabeth again until he went down to the Club after dinner. He had not,
as he might have done, sought her out and demanded an explanation. His face unnerved
him when he looked at it in the glass. With the birthmark on one side and the graze on the
other it was so woebegone, so hideous, that he dared not show himself by daylight. As he
entered the Club lounge he put his hand over his birthmark — pretext, a mosquito bite on
the forehead. It would have been more than his nerve was equal to, not to cover his
birthmark at such a moment. However, Elizabeth was not there.
Instead, he tumbled into an unexpected quarrel. Ellis and Westfield had just got back
from the jungle, and they were sitting drinking, in a sour mood. News had come from
Rangoon that the editor of the Bunnese Patriot had been given only four months’
imprisonment for his libel against Mr Macregor, and Ellis was working himself up into a
rage over this light sentence. As soon as Flory came in Ellis began baiting him with
remarks about ‘that little nigger Very-slimy’. At the moment the very thought of
quarrelling made Flory yawn, but he answered incautiously, and there was an argument.
It grew heated, and after Ellis had called Flory a nigger’s Nancy Boy and Flory had
replied in kind, Westfield too lost his temper. He was a good-natured man, but Flory ’s
Bolshie ideas sometimes annoyed him. He could never understand why, when there was
so clearly a right and a wrong opinion about everything, Flory always seemed to delight
in choosing the wrong one. He told Flory ‘not to start talking like a damned Hyde Park
agitator’, and then read him a snappish little sermon, taking as his text the five chief
beatitudes of the pukka sahib, namely:
Keeping up our prestige, The firm hand (without the velvet glove), We white men must
hang together, Give them an inch and they’ll take an ell, and Esprit de Corps.
All the while his anxiety to see Elizabeth was so gnawing at Flory’s heart that he could
hardly hear what was said to him. Besides, he had heard it all so often, so very often — a
hundred times, a thousand times it might be, since his first week in Rangoon, when his
hurra sahib (an old Scotch gin-soaker and great breeder of racing ponies, afterwards
warned off the turf for some dirty business of running the same horse under two different
names) saw him take off his topi to pass a native funeral and said to him reprovingly:
‘Remember laddie, always remember, we are sahiblog and they are dirrt! ’ It sickened
him, now, to have to listen to such trash. So he cut Westfield short by saying
blasphemously:
‘Oh, shut up! I’m sick of the subject. Veraswami’s a damned good fellow — a damned
sight better than some white men I can think of. Anyway, I’m going to propose his name
for the Club when the general meeting comes. Perhaps he’ll liven this bloody place up a
bit. ’
Whereat the row would have become serious if it had not ended as most rows ended at
the Club — with the appearance of the butler, who had heard the raised voices.
‘Did master call, sir? ’
‘No. Go to hell,’ said Ellis morosely.
The butler retired, but that was the end of the dispute for the time being. At this moment
there were footsteps and voices outside; the Lackersteens were arriving at the Club.
When they entered the lounge, Flory could not even nerve himself to look directly at
Elizabeth; but he noticed that all three of them were much more smartly dressed than
usual. Mr Lackersteen was even wearing a dinner-jacket — white, because of the season —
and was completely sober. The boiled shirt and pique waistcoat seemed to hold him
upright and stiffen his moral fibre like a breastplate. Mrs Lackersteen looked handsome
and serpentine in a red dress. In some indefinable way all three gave the impression that
they were waiting to receive some distinguished guest.
When drinks had been called for, and Mrs Lackersteen had usurped the place under the
punkah, Flory took a chair on the outside of the group. He dared not accost Elizabeth yet.
Mrs Lackersteen had begun talking in an extraordinary, silly manner about the dear
Prince of Wales, and putting on an accent like a temporarily promoted chorus-girl playing
the part of a duchess in a musical comedy. The others wondered privately what the devil
was the matter with her. Flory had stationed himself almost behind Elizabeth. She was
wearing a yellow frock, cut very short as the fashion then was, with champagne-coloured
stockings and slippers to match, and she carried a big ostrich-feather fan. She looked so
modish, so adult, that he feared her more than he had ever done. It was unbelievable that
he had ever kissed her. She was talking easily to all the others at once, and now and again
he dared to put a word into the general conversation; but she never answered him
directly, and whether or not she meant to ignore him, he could not tell.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Lackersteen presently, ‘and who’s for a rubbah? ’
She said quite distinctly a ‘rubbah’. Her accent was growing more aristocratic with every
word she uttered. It was unaccountable. It appeared that Ellis, Westfield and Mr
Lackersteen were for a ‘rubbah’. Flory refused as soon as he saw that Elizabeth was not
playing. Now or never was his chance to get her alone. When they all moved for the card-
room, he saw with a mixture of fear and relief that Elizabeth came last. He stopped in the
doorway, barring her path. He had turned dreadly pale. She shrank from him a little.
‘Excuse me,’ they both said simultaneously.
‘One moment,’ he said, and do what he would his voice trembled. ‘May I speak to you?
You don’t mind — there’s something I must say. ’
‘Will you please let me pass, Mr Flory? ’
‘Please! Please! We’re alone now. You won’t refuse just to let me speak? ’
‘What is it, then? ’
‘It’s only this. Whatever I’ve done to offend you — please tell me what it is. Tell me and
let me put it right. I’d sooner cut my hand off than offend you. Just tell me, don’t let me
go on not even knowing what it is. ’
‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about. “Tell you how you’ve offended me? ”
Why should you have OFFENDED me? ’
‘But I must have! After the way you behaved! ’
“‘After the way I behaved? ” I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know why you’re
talking in this extraordinary way at all. ’
‘But you won’t even speak to me! This morning you cut me absolutely dead. ’
‘Surely I can do as I like without being questioned? ’
‘But please, please! Don’t you see, you must see, what it’s like for me to be snubbed all
of a sudden. After all, only last night you — ’
She turned pink. ‘I think it’s absolutely — absolutely caddish of you to mention such
things! ’
‘I know, I know. I know all that. But what else can I do? You walked past me this
morning as though I’d been a stone. I know that I’ve offended you in some way. Can you
blame me if I want to know what it is that I’ve done? ’
He was, as usual, making it worse with every word he said. He perceived that whatever
he had done, to be made to speak of it seemed to her worse than the thing itself. She was
not going to explain. She was going to leave him in the dark — snub him and then pretend
that nothing had happened; the natural feminine move. Nevertheless he urged her again:
‘Please tell me. I can’t let everything end between us like this. ’
“‘End between us”? There was nothing to end,’ she said coldly.
The vulgarity of this remark wounded him, and he said quickly:
‘That wasn’t like you, Elizabeth! It’s not generous to cut a man dead after you’ve been
kind to him, and then refuse even to tell him the reason. You might be straightforward
with me. Please tell me what it is that I’ve done. ’
She gave him an oblique, bitter look, bitter not because of what he had done, but because
he had made her speak of it. But perhaps she was anxious to end the scene, and she said:
‘Well then, if you absolutely force me to speak of it — ’
‘Yes? ’
‘I’m told that at the very same time as you were pretending to — well, when you were . . .
with me — oh, it’s too beastly! I can’t speak of it. ’
‘Go on. ’
‘I’m told that you’re keeping a Burmese woman. And now, will you please let me pass? ’
With that she sailed — there was no other possible word for it — she sailed past him with a
swish of her short skirts, and vanished into the card-room. And he remained looking after
her, too appalled to speak, and looking unutterably ridiculous.
It was dreadful. He could not face her after that. He turned to hurry out of the Club, and
then dared not even pass the door of the card-room, lest she should see him. He went into
the lounge, wondering how to escape, and finally climbed over the veranda rail and
dropped on to the small square of lawn that ran down to the Irrawaddy. The sweat was
running from his forehead. He could have shouted with anger and distress. The accursed
luck of it! To be caught out over a thing like that. ‘Keeping a Bunnese woman’ — and it
was not even true! But much use it would ever be to deny it. Ah, what damned, evil
chance could have brought it to her ears?
But as a matter of fact, it was no chance. It had a perfectly sound cause, which was also
the cause of Mrs Lackersteen’s curious behaviour at the Club this evening. On the
previous night, just before the earthquake, Mrs Lackersteen had been reading the Civil
List. The Civil List (which tells you the exact income of every official in Burma) was a
source of inexhaustible interest to her. She was in the middle of adding up the pay and
allowances of a Conservator of Forests whom she had once met in Mandalay, when it
occurred to her to look up the name of Lieutenant Verrall, who, she had heard from Mr
Macregor, was arriving at Kyauktada tomorrow with a hundred Military Policemen.
When she found the name, she saw in front of it two words that startled her almost out of
her wits.
The words were ‘The Honourable’!
The HONOURABLE! Lieutenants the Honourable are rare anywhere, rare as diamonds
in the Indian Army, rare as dodos in Burma. And when you are the aunt of the only
marriageable young woman within fifty miles, and you hear that a lieutenant the
Honourable is arriving no later than tomorrow — well! With dismay Mrs Lackersteen
remembered that Elizabeth was out in the garden with Flory — that drunken wretch Flory,
whose pay was barely seven hundred rupees a month, and who, it was only too probable,
was already proposing to her! She hastened immediately to call Elizabeth inside, but at
this moment the earthquake intervened. However, on the way home there was an
opportunity to speak. Mrs Lackersteen laid her hand affectionately on Elizabeth’s arm
and said in the tenderest voice she had ever succeeded in producing:
‘Of course you know, Elizabeth dear, that Flory is keeping a Burmese woman? ’
For a moment this deadly charge actually failed to explode. Elizabeth was so new to the
ways of the country that the remark made no impression on her. It sounded hardly more
significant than ‘keeping a parrot’.
‘Keeping a Burmese woman? What for? ’
‘What FOR? My dear! what DOES a man keep a woman for? ’
And, of course, that was that.
For a long time Flory remained standing by the river bank. The moon was up, mirrored in
the water like a broad shield of electron. The coolness of the outer air had changed
Flory ’s mood. He had not even the heart to be angry any longer. For he had perceived,
with the deadly self-knowledge and self-loathing that come to one at such a time, that
what had happened served him perfectly right. For a moment it seemed to him that an
endless procession of Burmese women, a regiment of ghosts, were marching past him in
the moonlight. Heavens, what numbers of them! A thousand — no, but a full hundred at
the least. ‘Eyes right! ’ he thought despondently. Their heads turned towards him, but they
had no faces, only featureless discs. He remembered a blue longyi here, a pair of ruby
ear-rings there, but hardly a face or a name. The gods are just and of our pleasant vices
(pleasant, indeed! ) make instruments to plague us. He had dirtied himself beyond
redemption, and this was his just punishment.
He made his way slowly through the croton bushes and round the clubhouse. He was too
saddened to feel the full pain of the disaster yet. It would begin hurting, as all deep
wounds do, long afterwards. As he passed through the gate something stirred the leaves
behind him. He started. There was a whisper of harsh Burmese syllables.
‘Pike-san pay-like! Pike-san pay-like! ’
He turned sharply. The ‘pike-san pay-like’ (‘Give me the money’) was repeated. He saw
a woman standing under the shadow of the gold mohur tree. It was Ma Hla May. She
stepped out into the moonlight warily, with a hostile air, keeping her distance as though
afraid that he would strike her. Her face was coated with powder, sickly white in the
moon, and it looked as ugly as a skull, and defiant.
She had given him a shock. ‘What the devil are you doing here? ’ he said angrily in
English.
‘Pike-san pay-like! ’
‘What money? What do you mean? Why are you following me about like this? ’
‘Pike-san pay-like! ’ she repeated almost in a scream. ‘The money you promised me,
thakin.
departed from their legs. An earthquake is such fun when it is over. It is so exhilarating to
reflect that you are not, as you well might be, lying dead under a heap of ruins. With one
accord they all burst out talking: ‘My dear, I’ve never HAD such a shock — I fell
absolutely FLAT on my back — I thought it was a dam’ pariah dog scratching itself under
the floor — I thought it must be an explosion somewhere — ’ and so on and so forth; the
usual earthquake-chatter. Even the butler was included in the conversation.
‘I expect you can remember ever so many earthquakes can’t you butler? ’ said Mrs
Lackersteen, quite graciously, for her.
‘Oh yes, madam, many earthquakes! 1887, 1899, 1906, 1912 — many, many I can
remember, madam! ’
‘The 1912 one was a biggish one,’ Flory said.
‘Oh, sir, but 1906 was bigger! Very bad shock, sir! And big heathen idol in the temple
fall down on top of the thathanabaing, that is Buddhist bishop, madam, which the
Burmese say mean bad omen for failure of paddy crop and foot-and-mouth disease. Also
in 1887 my first earthquake I remember, when I was a little chokra, and Major Maclagan
sahib was lying under the table and promising he sign the teetotal pledge tomorrow
morning. He not know it was an earthquake. Also two cows was killed by falling roofs,’
etc. , etc.
The Europeans stayed in the Club till midnight, and the butler popped into the room as
many as half a dozen times, to relate a new anecdote. So far from snubbing him, the
Europeans even encouraged him to talk. There is nothing like an earthquake for drawing
people together. One more tremor, or perhaps two, and they would have asked the butler
to sit down at table with them.
Meanwhile, Flory’s proposal went no further. One cannot propose marriage immediately
after an earthquake. In any case, he did not see Elizabeth alone for the rest of that
evening. But it did not matter, he knew that she was his now. In the morning there would
be time enough. On this thought, at peace in his mind, and dog-tired after the long day, he
went to bed.
CHAPTER 16
The vultures in the big pyinkado trees by the cemetery flapped from their dung-whitened
branches, steadied themselves on the wing, and climbed by vast spirals into the upper air.
It was early, but Flory was out already. He was going down to the Club, to wait until
Elizabeth came and then ask her formally to marry him. Some instinct, which he did not
understand, prompted him to do it before the other Europeans returned from the jungle.
As he came out of the compound gate he saw that there was a new arrival at Kyauktada.
A youth with a long spear like a needle in his hand was cantering across the maidan on a
white pony. Some Sikhs, looking like sepoys, ran after him, leading two other ponies, a
bay and a chestnut, by the bridle. When he came level with him Flory halted on the road
and shouted good morning. He had not recognized the youth, but it is usual in small
stations to make strangers welcome. The other saw that he was hailed, wheeled his pony
negligently round and brought it to the side of the road. He was a youth of about twenty-
live, lank but very straight, and manifestly a cavalry officer. He had one of those rabbit-
like faces common among English soldiers, with pale blue eyes and a little triangle of
fore-teeth visible between the lips; yet hard, fearless and even brutal in a careless
fashion — a rabbit, perhaps, but a tough and martial rabbit. He sat his horse as though he
were part of it, and he looked offensively young and fit. His fresh face was tanned to the
exact shade that went with his light-coloured eyes, and he was as elegant as a picture with
his white buckskin topi and his polo-boots that gleamed like an old meerschaum pipe.
Flory felt uncomfortable in his presence from the start.
‘How d’you do? ’ said Flory. ‘Have you just arrived? ’
‘Last night, got in by the late train. ’ He had a surly, boyish voice. ‘I’ve been sent up here
with a company of men to stand by in case your local bad-mashes start any trouble. My
name’s Verrall — Military Police,’ he added, not, however, inquiring Flory’s name in
return.
‘Oh yes. We heard they were sending somebody. Where are you putting up? ’
‘Dak bungalow, for the time being. There was some black beggar staying there when I
got in last night — Excise Officer or something. I booted him out. This is a filthy hole,
isn’t it? ’ he said with a backward movement of his head, indicating the whole of
Kyauktada.
‘I suppose it’s like the rest of these small stations. Are you staying long? ’
‘Only a month or so, thank God. Till the rains break. What a rotten maidan you’ve got
here, haven’t you? Pity they can’t keep this stuff cut,’ he added, swishing the dried-up
grass with the point of his spear. ‘Makes it so hopeless for polo or anything. ’
‘I’m afraid you won’t get any polo here,’ Flory said. ‘Tennis is the best we can manage.
There are only eight of us all told, and most of us spend three-quarters of our time in the
jungle. ’
‘Christ! What a hole! ’
After this there was a silence. The tall, bearded Sikhs stood in a group round their horses’
heads, eyeing Flory without much favour. It was perfectly clear that Verral was bored
with the conversation and wanted to escape. Flory had never in his life felt so completely
de trop, or so old and shabby. He noticed that Verrall’s pony was a beautiful Arab, a
mare, with proud neck and arching, plume-like tail; a lovely milk-white thing, worth
several thousands of rupees. Verrall had already twitched the bridle to turn away,
evidently feeling that he had talked enough for one morning.
‘That’s a wonderful pony of yours,’ Flory said.
‘She’s not bad, better than these Burma scrubs. I’ve come out to do a bit of tent-pegging.
It’s hopeless trying to knock a polo ball about in this muck. Hey, Hira Singh! ’ he called,
and turned his pony away.
The sepoy holding the bay pony handed his bridle to a companion, ran to a spot forty
yards away, and fixed a narrow boxwood peg in the ground. Verral took no further notice
of Flory. He raised his spear and poised himself as though taking aim at the peg, while
the Indians backed their horses out of the way and stood watching critically. With a just
perceptible movement Verrall dug his knees into the pony’s sides. She bounded forward
like a bullet from a catapult. As easily as a centaur the lank, straight youth leaned over in
the saddle, lowered his spear and plunged it clean through the peg. One of the Indians
muttered gruffly ‘Shabash! ’ Verrall raised his spear behind him in the orthodox fashion,
and then, pulling his horse to a canter, wheeled round and handed the transfixed peg to
the sepoy.
Verrall rode twice more at the peg, and hit it each time. It was done with matchless grace
and with extraordinary solemnity. The whole group of men, Englishman and Indians,
were concentrated upon the business of hitting the peg as though it had been a religious
ritual. Flory still stood watching, disregarded — VerralFs face was one of those that are
specially constructed for ignoring unwelcome strangers — but from the very fact that he
had been snubbed unable to tear himself away. Somehow, Verrall had filled him with a
horrible sense of inferiority. He was trying to think of some pretext for renewing the
conversation, when he looked up the hillside and saw Elizabeth, in pale blue, coming out
of her uncle’s gate. She must have seen the third transfixing of the peg. His heart stirred
painfully. A thought occurred to him, one of those rash thoughts that usually lead to
trouble. He called to Verrall, who was a few yards away from him, and pointed with his
stick.
‘Do these other two know how to do it? ’
Verrall looked over his shoulder with a surly air. He had expected Flory to go away after
being ignored.
‘What? ’
‘Can these other two do it? ’ Flory repeated.
‘The chestnut’s not bad. Bolts if you let him, though. ’
‘Let me have a shot at the peg, would you? ’
‘All right,’ said Verrall ungraciously. ‘Don’t go and cut his mouth to bits. ’
A sepoy brought the pony, and Flory pretended to examine the curb-chain. In reality he
was temporizing until Elizabeth should be thirty or forty yards away. He made up his
mind that he would stick the peg exactly at the moment when she passed (it is easy
enough on the small Burma ponies, provided that they will gallop straight), and then ride
up to her with it on his point. That was obviously the right move. He did not want her to
think that that pink-faced young whelp was the only person who could ride. He was
wearing shorts, which are uncomfortable to ride in, but he knew that, like nearly
everyone, he looked his best on horseback.
Elizabeth was approaching. Flory stepped into the saddle, took the spear from the Indian
and waved it in greeting to Elizabeth. She made no response, however. Probably she was
shy in front of Verrall. She was looking away, towards the cemetery, and her cheeks were
pink.
‘Chalo,’ said Flory to the Indian, and then dug his knees into the horse’s sides.
The very next instant, before the horse had taken to bounds, Flory found himself hurtling
through the air, hitting the ground with a crack that wrenched his shoulder almost out of
joint, and rolling over and over. Mercifully the spear fell clear of him. He lay supine, with
a blurred vision of blue sky and floating vultures. Then his eyes focused on the khaki
pagri and dark face of a Sikh, bearded to the eyes, bending over him.
‘What’s happened? ’ he said in English, and he raised himself painfully on his elbow. The
Sikh made some gruff answer and pointed. Flory saw the chestnut pony careering away
over the maidan, with the saddle under its belly. The girth had not been tightened, and
had slipped round; hence his fall.
When Flory sat up he found that he was in extreme pain. The right shoulder of his shirt
was torn open and already soaking with blood, and he could feel more blood oozing from
his cheek. The hard earth had grazed him. His hat, too, was gone. With a deadly pang he
remembered Elizabeth, and he saw her coming towards him, barely ten yards away,
looking straight at him as he sprawled there so ignominiously. My God, my God! he
thought, O my God, what a fool I must look! The thought of it even drove away the pain
of the fall. He clapped a hand over his birth-mark, though the other cheek was the
damaged one.
‘Elizabeth! Hullo, Elizabeth! Good morning! ’
He had called out eagerly, appealingly, as one does when one is conscious of looking a
fool. She did not answer, and what was almost incredible, she walked on without pausing
even for an instant, as though she had neither seen nor heard him.
‘Elizabeth! ’ he called again, taken aback; ‘did you see my fall? The saddle slipped. The
fool of a sepoy hadn’t — ’
There was no question that she had heard him now. She turned her face full upon him for
a moment, and looked at him and through him as though he had not existed. Then she
gazed away into the distance beyond the cemetery. It was terrible. He called after her in
dismay —
‘Elizabeth! I say, Elizabeth! ’
She passed on without a word, without a sign, without a look. She was walking sharply
down the road, with a click of heels, her back turned upon him.
The sepoys had come round him now, and Verrall, too, had ridden across to where Flory
lay. Some of the sepoys had saluted Elizabeth; Verrall had ignored her, perhaps not
seeing her. Flory rose stiffly to his feet. He was badly bruised, but no bones were broken.
The Indians brought him his hat and stick, but they did not apologize for their
carelessness. They looked faintly contemptuous, as though thinking that he had only got
what he deserved. It was conceivable that they had loosened the girth on purpose.
‘The saddle slipped,’ said Flory in the weak, stupid way that one does at such moments.
‘Why the devil couldn’t you look at it before you got up? ’ said Verrall briefly. ‘You
ought to know these beggars aren’t to be trusted. ’
Having said which he twitched his bridle and rode away, feeling the incident closed. The
sepoys followed him without saluting Flory. When Flory reached his gate he looked back
and saw that the chestnut pony had already been caught and re-saddled, and Verrall was
tent-pegging upon it.
The fall had so shaken him that even now he could hardly collect his thoughts. What
could have made her behave like that? She had seen him lying bloody and in pain, and
she had walked past him as though he had been a dead dog. How could it have happened?
HAD it happened? It was incredible. Could she be angry with him? Could he have
offended her in any way? All the servants were waiting at the compound fence. They had
come out to watch the tent-pegging, and every one of them had seen his bitter
humiliation. Ko S’la ran part of the way down the hill to meet him, with concerned face.
‘The god has hurt himself? Shall I carry the god back to the house? ’
‘No,’ said the god. ‘Go and get me some whisky and a clean shirt. ’
When they got back to the house Ko S’la made Flory sit down on the bed and peeled off
his torn shirt which the blood had stuck to his body. Ko S’la clicked his tongue.
‘Ah ma lay? These cuts are full of dirt. You ought not to play these children’s games on
strange ponies, thakin. Not at your age. It is too dangerous. ’
‘The saddle slipped,’ Flory said.
‘Such games,’ pursued Ko S’la, ‘are all very well for the young police officer. But you
are no longer young, thakin. A fall hurts at your age. You should take more care of
yourself. ’
‘Do you take me for an old man? ’ said Flory angrily. His shoulder was smarting
abominably.
‘You are thirty-five, thakin,’ said Ko S’la politely but firmly.
It was all very humiliating. Ma Pu and Ma Yi, temporarily at peace, had brought a pot of
some dreadful mess which they declared was good for cuts. Flory told Ko S’la privately
to throw it out of the window and substitute boracic ointment. Then, while he sat in a
tepid bath and Ko S’la sponged the dirt out of his grazes, he puzzled helplessly, and, as
his head grew clearer, with a deeper and deeper dismay, over what had happened. He had
offended her bitterly, that was clear. But, when he had not even seen her since last night,
how COULD he have offended her? And there was no even plausible answer.
He explained to Ko S’la several times over that his fall was due to the saddle slipping.
But Ko S’la, though sympathetic, clearly did not believe him. To the end of his days,
Flory perceived, the fall would be attributed to his own bad horsemanship. On the other
hand, a fortnight ago, he had won undeserved renown by putting to flight the harmless
buffalo. Fate is even-handed, after a fashion.
CHAPTER 17
Flory did not see Elizabeth again until he went down to the Club after dinner. He had not,
as he might have done, sought her out and demanded an explanation. His face unnerved
him when he looked at it in the glass. With the birthmark on one side and the graze on the
other it was so woebegone, so hideous, that he dared not show himself by daylight. As he
entered the Club lounge he put his hand over his birthmark — pretext, a mosquito bite on
the forehead. It would have been more than his nerve was equal to, not to cover his
birthmark at such a moment. However, Elizabeth was not there.
Instead, he tumbled into an unexpected quarrel. Ellis and Westfield had just got back
from the jungle, and they were sitting drinking, in a sour mood. News had come from
Rangoon that the editor of the Bunnese Patriot had been given only four months’
imprisonment for his libel against Mr Macregor, and Ellis was working himself up into a
rage over this light sentence. As soon as Flory came in Ellis began baiting him with
remarks about ‘that little nigger Very-slimy’. At the moment the very thought of
quarrelling made Flory yawn, but he answered incautiously, and there was an argument.
It grew heated, and after Ellis had called Flory a nigger’s Nancy Boy and Flory had
replied in kind, Westfield too lost his temper. He was a good-natured man, but Flory ’s
Bolshie ideas sometimes annoyed him. He could never understand why, when there was
so clearly a right and a wrong opinion about everything, Flory always seemed to delight
in choosing the wrong one. He told Flory ‘not to start talking like a damned Hyde Park
agitator’, and then read him a snappish little sermon, taking as his text the five chief
beatitudes of the pukka sahib, namely:
Keeping up our prestige, The firm hand (without the velvet glove), We white men must
hang together, Give them an inch and they’ll take an ell, and Esprit de Corps.
All the while his anxiety to see Elizabeth was so gnawing at Flory’s heart that he could
hardly hear what was said to him. Besides, he had heard it all so often, so very often — a
hundred times, a thousand times it might be, since his first week in Rangoon, when his
hurra sahib (an old Scotch gin-soaker and great breeder of racing ponies, afterwards
warned off the turf for some dirty business of running the same horse under two different
names) saw him take off his topi to pass a native funeral and said to him reprovingly:
‘Remember laddie, always remember, we are sahiblog and they are dirrt! ’ It sickened
him, now, to have to listen to such trash. So he cut Westfield short by saying
blasphemously:
‘Oh, shut up! I’m sick of the subject. Veraswami’s a damned good fellow — a damned
sight better than some white men I can think of. Anyway, I’m going to propose his name
for the Club when the general meeting comes. Perhaps he’ll liven this bloody place up a
bit. ’
Whereat the row would have become serious if it had not ended as most rows ended at
the Club — with the appearance of the butler, who had heard the raised voices.
‘Did master call, sir? ’
‘No. Go to hell,’ said Ellis morosely.
The butler retired, but that was the end of the dispute for the time being. At this moment
there were footsteps and voices outside; the Lackersteens were arriving at the Club.
When they entered the lounge, Flory could not even nerve himself to look directly at
Elizabeth; but he noticed that all three of them were much more smartly dressed than
usual. Mr Lackersteen was even wearing a dinner-jacket — white, because of the season —
and was completely sober. The boiled shirt and pique waistcoat seemed to hold him
upright and stiffen his moral fibre like a breastplate. Mrs Lackersteen looked handsome
and serpentine in a red dress. In some indefinable way all three gave the impression that
they were waiting to receive some distinguished guest.
When drinks had been called for, and Mrs Lackersteen had usurped the place under the
punkah, Flory took a chair on the outside of the group. He dared not accost Elizabeth yet.
Mrs Lackersteen had begun talking in an extraordinary, silly manner about the dear
Prince of Wales, and putting on an accent like a temporarily promoted chorus-girl playing
the part of a duchess in a musical comedy. The others wondered privately what the devil
was the matter with her. Flory had stationed himself almost behind Elizabeth. She was
wearing a yellow frock, cut very short as the fashion then was, with champagne-coloured
stockings and slippers to match, and she carried a big ostrich-feather fan. She looked so
modish, so adult, that he feared her more than he had ever done. It was unbelievable that
he had ever kissed her. She was talking easily to all the others at once, and now and again
he dared to put a word into the general conversation; but she never answered him
directly, and whether or not she meant to ignore him, he could not tell.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Lackersteen presently, ‘and who’s for a rubbah? ’
She said quite distinctly a ‘rubbah’. Her accent was growing more aristocratic with every
word she uttered. It was unaccountable. It appeared that Ellis, Westfield and Mr
Lackersteen were for a ‘rubbah’. Flory refused as soon as he saw that Elizabeth was not
playing. Now or never was his chance to get her alone. When they all moved for the card-
room, he saw with a mixture of fear and relief that Elizabeth came last. He stopped in the
doorway, barring her path. He had turned dreadly pale. She shrank from him a little.
‘Excuse me,’ they both said simultaneously.
‘One moment,’ he said, and do what he would his voice trembled. ‘May I speak to you?
You don’t mind — there’s something I must say. ’
‘Will you please let me pass, Mr Flory? ’
‘Please! Please! We’re alone now. You won’t refuse just to let me speak? ’
‘What is it, then? ’
‘It’s only this. Whatever I’ve done to offend you — please tell me what it is. Tell me and
let me put it right. I’d sooner cut my hand off than offend you. Just tell me, don’t let me
go on not even knowing what it is. ’
‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about. “Tell you how you’ve offended me? ”
Why should you have OFFENDED me? ’
‘But I must have! After the way you behaved! ’
“‘After the way I behaved? ” I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know why you’re
talking in this extraordinary way at all. ’
‘But you won’t even speak to me! This morning you cut me absolutely dead. ’
‘Surely I can do as I like without being questioned? ’
‘But please, please! Don’t you see, you must see, what it’s like for me to be snubbed all
of a sudden. After all, only last night you — ’
She turned pink. ‘I think it’s absolutely — absolutely caddish of you to mention such
things! ’
‘I know, I know. I know all that. But what else can I do? You walked past me this
morning as though I’d been a stone. I know that I’ve offended you in some way. Can you
blame me if I want to know what it is that I’ve done? ’
He was, as usual, making it worse with every word he said. He perceived that whatever
he had done, to be made to speak of it seemed to her worse than the thing itself. She was
not going to explain. She was going to leave him in the dark — snub him and then pretend
that nothing had happened; the natural feminine move. Nevertheless he urged her again:
‘Please tell me. I can’t let everything end between us like this. ’
“‘End between us”? There was nothing to end,’ she said coldly.
The vulgarity of this remark wounded him, and he said quickly:
‘That wasn’t like you, Elizabeth! It’s not generous to cut a man dead after you’ve been
kind to him, and then refuse even to tell him the reason. You might be straightforward
with me. Please tell me what it is that I’ve done. ’
She gave him an oblique, bitter look, bitter not because of what he had done, but because
he had made her speak of it. But perhaps she was anxious to end the scene, and she said:
‘Well then, if you absolutely force me to speak of it — ’
‘Yes? ’
‘I’m told that at the very same time as you were pretending to — well, when you were . . .
with me — oh, it’s too beastly! I can’t speak of it. ’
‘Go on. ’
‘I’m told that you’re keeping a Burmese woman. And now, will you please let me pass? ’
With that she sailed — there was no other possible word for it — she sailed past him with a
swish of her short skirts, and vanished into the card-room. And he remained looking after
her, too appalled to speak, and looking unutterably ridiculous.
It was dreadful. He could not face her after that. He turned to hurry out of the Club, and
then dared not even pass the door of the card-room, lest she should see him. He went into
the lounge, wondering how to escape, and finally climbed over the veranda rail and
dropped on to the small square of lawn that ran down to the Irrawaddy. The sweat was
running from his forehead. He could have shouted with anger and distress. The accursed
luck of it! To be caught out over a thing like that. ‘Keeping a Bunnese woman’ — and it
was not even true! But much use it would ever be to deny it. Ah, what damned, evil
chance could have brought it to her ears?
But as a matter of fact, it was no chance. It had a perfectly sound cause, which was also
the cause of Mrs Lackersteen’s curious behaviour at the Club this evening. On the
previous night, just before the earthquake, Mrs Lackersteen had been reading the Civil
List. The Civil List (which tells you the exact income of every official in Burma) was a
source of inexhaustible interest to her. She was in the middle of adding up the pay and
allowances of a Conservator of Forests whom she had once met in Mandalay, when it
occurred to her to look up the name of Lieutenant Verrall, who, she had heard from Mr
Macregor, was arriving at Kyauktada tomorrow with a hundred Military Policemen.
When she found the name, she saw in front of it two words that startled her almost out of
her wits.
The words were ‘The Honourable’!
The HONOURABLE! Lieutenants the Honourable are rare anywhere, rare as diamonds
in the Indian Army, rare as dodos in Burma. And when you are the aunt of the only
marriageable young woman within fifty miles, and you hear that a lieutenant the
Honourable is arriving no later than tomorrow — well! With dismay Mrs Lackersteen
remembered that Elizabeth was out in the garden with Flory — that drunken wretch Flory,
whose pay was barely seven hundred rupees a month, and who, it was only too probable,
was already proposing to her! She hastened immediately to call Elizabeth inside, but at
this moment the earthquake intervened. However, on the way home there was an
opportunity to speak. Mrs Lackersteen laid her hand affectionately on Elizabeth’s arm
and said in the tenderest voice she had ever succeeded in producing:
‘Of course you know, Elizabeth dear, that Flory is keeping a Burmese woman? ’
For a moment this deadly charge actually failed to explode. Elizabeth was so new to the
ways of the country that the remark made no impression on her. It sounded hardly more
significant than ‘keeping a parrot’.
‘Keeping a Burmese woman? What for? ’
‘What FOR? My dear! what DOES a man keep a woman for? ’
And, of course, that was that.
For a long time Flory remained standing by the river bank. The moon was up, mirrored in
the water like a broad shield of electron. The coolness of the outer air had changed
Flory ’s mood. He had not even the heart to be angry any longer. For he had perceived,
with the deadly self-knowledge and self-loathing that come to one at such a time, that
what had happened served him perfectly right. For a moment it seemed to him that an
endless procession of Burmese women, a regiment of ghosts, were marching past him in
the moonlight. Heavens, what numbers of them! A thousand — no, but a full hundred at
the least. ‘Eyes right! ’ he thought despondently. Their heads turned towards him, but they
had no faces, only featureless discs. He remembered a blue longyi here, a pair of ruby
ear-rings there, but hardly a face or a name. The gods are just and of our pleasant vices
(pleasant, indeed! ) make instruments to plague us. He had dirtied himself beyond
redemption, and this was his just punishment.
He made his way slowly through the croton bushes and round the clubhouse. He was too
saddened to feel the full pain of the disaster yet. It would begin hurting, as all deep
wounds do, long afterwards. As he passed through the gate something stirred the leaves
behind him. He started. There was a whisper of harsh Burmese syllables.
‘Pike-san pay-like! Pike-san pay-like! ’
He turned sharply. The ‘pike-san pay-like’ (‘Give me the money’) was repeated. He saw
a woman standing under the shadow of the gold mohur tree. It was Ma Hla May. She
stepped out into the moonlight warily, with a hostile air, keeping her distance as though
afraid that he would strike her. Her face was coated with powder, sickly white in the
moon, and it looked as ugly as a skull, and defiant.
She had given him a shock. ‘What the devil are you doing here? ’ he said angrily in
English.
‘Pike-san pay-like! ’
‘What money? What do you mean? Why are you following me about like this? ’
‘Pike-san pay-like! ’ she repeated almost in a scream. ‘The money you promised me,
thakin.
