When We Were Strolling Players in the East

by Louise Jordan Miln

I was too sorry for my hostess to answer my gentle critic; but what tales I could have told of her in Paris! Some people do indeed believe in the forgiveness of sins, if they are conventional ones.

A friend, who knows me well, said to me recently: “How can a woman, who is so over-timid about most things, do so many foolhardy things?” As a matter of fact, I am a great physical coward. But I have never felt afraid of the natives among whom I have gone so peculiarly; nor do I believe that I have ever been in the slightest danger. As far as the Burra Bazaar was concerned, I am sure that I was as safe as a queen surrounded by a loyal army. The Orientals are not prone to kill the geese that lay golden eggs. I spent too many rupees and too constantly for the thrifty storekeepers to have seen harm come to me. Then think of the hubbub that would have been raised if one European woman had been murdered, as I was often told I would be! A terrible punishment would have been meted out to my gharri wallah and sais. They were bound to protect me, and so was every Hindoo of their caste. I often left the gharri, and went where it could not go; but I noticed that, unless I had my ayah with me, the sais always followed me. I was inveterate and tireless in my prowlings in the Burra Bazaar. I saw strange sights there, and smelled strange smells. I never received an uncivil look, much less a rude word.

I had great fun several times in the Burra Bazaar. Where the press of humanity was most dense, I used to take a rupee from my purse, and, holding it up, ask, “What will you sell for this?” Oh! how they rushed about me! What strange bargains they offered me! And how good-natured they were. They whined and begged and prayed, they pushed and jambed each other against the gharri door. They called me “Mamma” in the most persuasive tones. But when my choice was made, they fell back and salaamed and laughed gleefully as I drove away.

My husband went with me to the Burra Bazaar once—once only. We were going to play Our Boys. To my horror, my husband elected to play Perkyn Middlewick. I begged him to play Talbot; but he was caught by the idea of playing a part so entirely new, in every way, as Middlewick would be to him. The rehearsals began, and he grew quite infatuated with his part. He began to plan elaborate costumes for poor old Mr. Middlewick. I pretended to not quite understand the kind of brocade that he wanted for a beautifully brilliant vest. In that way I inveigled him into going with me into the Burra Bazaar. He sniffed at Bentick Street; but he had been there before. With the Bazaar itself he was unmitigatedly disgusted. When we reached the silk shop he broke into open rebellion.

“How do you get in?” Sais pushed open a narrow door. A flight of steep, shallow, almost perpendicular steps were all that we could see, and we could only half see them. They were innocent of railing; they went through space in the simplest way; and the only concession to light-headed mortals was a questionable-looking rope that dangled from the floor above.

He caught my arm: “You are not going up there! We’ll get our necks broken, or, at the very least, be robbed.”

“I have been up there very often,” I urged; “and there is no other shop where we are so likely to get what you want.”

I went up, and he followed me gingerly. The room, into which we crawled rather than walked, was about ten feet by twelve. Four Brahmins sat upon the floor; and the glass cases that lined the walls from ceiling to floor must have contained some thousands of pounds worth of silk, of crepe, and of embroideries. There was a chair in the room; it had not been there when I paid my first visit,—I flatter myself it had been bought for me, and doubtless out of my money. The proprietor of the shop pushed the chair an inch in our direction; he placed a mat beside it, and left us to decide how we would divide them.

We stayed a long time in the tiny room. The presence of a man inspired them to bring out their choicest treasures. What exquisitely beautiful things they showed us,—soft priceless crêpes, thick pliant satins, matchless embroideries; they tempted my companion even more than they did me. We found the very piece of pathetically ridiculous brocade that he wanted, and he was as pleased as a boy.

Getting down the stairs was more than getting up them had been; but we accomplished it with assistance. Our drive home was very slow. My comrade stopped every few moments to buy some outrageous article. “I shall never come here again in all my life,” he said; “do let me enjoy myself.” It was a quaint gharri load of merchandise we carried back to the Great Eastern. Even the stolid durwan looked amazed.