Ava - and Failure (1819)

C H A P T E R X

Ava —— and Failure

[ 1819 ]

If took Adoniram longer than he expected to outfit the boat and recruit a crew so that it was nearly two weeks after the pass was granted — December 21, 1819, the day before Nancy’s thirtieth birthday—that they actually left Rangoon.

The departure was typically and colorfully Burmese. In addition to Nancy and Mrs. Colman (who had moved into the city from the more exposed mission house for the duration of their husbands’ absence), the converts, the entire population of the mission compound, and a chattering crowd of the merely curious, thronged the wharf to see them off.

There were eighteen men aboard the boat: Adoniram, Colman, ten oarsmen, a steersman under the umbrella on the high platform aft, 3 “headsman” representing the government, two cooks—one for Adoniram and Colman and another, Maung Nau, for the crew—a Hindu washerman, and “an Englishman, who has been unfortunate all his life and wishes to try the service of his Burman majesty.” The Englishman was in charge of the ship’s armament, which consisted of an assortment of guns and blunderbusses.

The teacher Maung Shway-gnong was not among them. Adoniram had invited him to go along, but, torn by inner doubts, he had refused and had not visited the mission for several days. Now, however, as the chanting oarsmen dug their blades into the muddy, yellowish water and the long, narrow craft moved away from the wharf to the accompaniment of shouts and farewells, Adoniram caught sight of his tall figure among the crowd. When Maung Shway-gnong saw Adoniram had noticed him, he raised one hand to his head in a slow, dignified gesture of farewell, and in this position remained until the boat rounded a projecting point above the city which cut the wharf off from view.

Soon even the shining spires of the Shwe Dagon, bright in a fresh new covering of gold leaf, sank below the horizon and they were fairly up the Rangoon River on the way to its junction with the Irrawaddy at the head of the delta. In a few days they entered the broad Irrawaddy, and the low paddy fields of the delta gave way to upland plains covered with forests of mangoes, tamarinds, bananas and figs. Along the shore they passed occasional bamboo-and-thatch fishing villages, boats clustering around their rickety docks. And from the docks themselves, along with the fragrant scents of the forests, drifted the unforgettable odor of ngapi in the making—that pungent compound of spiced, partly decayed fish which was the national condiment of Burma.

The broad river itself, with its busy traffic of teak rafts, clumsysailed rice vessels, and a multitude of Other craft, presented an almost gay spectacle. But Adoniram and Colman were aware of danger, too. One kind was the ever-present possibility of attack by the organized gangs of robbers and river pirates, the dacoits. The very first night above Rangoon they had tied up at a village where only a few days before dacoits had attacked a boat belonging to Mr. Gibson and killed the steersman and one of the crew. A week later, at a larger town, they met a detachment of soldiers pursuing a band of dacoits who had stormed a large boat, wounded and driven off its crew, and plundered it of goods worth some fifteen hundred ticals.

Another kind of danger was that of despotism, an anarchical, irresponsible deSpotism which knew no bounds. The deeper they went into the interior, the more they felt it and the more they saw it in the poverty of the villages cowering on the riverbanks in the middle of a landscape which promised nothing but abundance. These abject villages made a striking contrast to the ruins of ancient capitals of forgotten rulers—extending for acres and even miles along the shore where the upland plains gave way to rolling hill country and forested mountains slashed by wooded ravines. The ruins consisted of thousands of white stone pagodas, palaces and huge statues of Buddha; for every dynasty and almost every emperor of Burma had decreed a metropolis for itself in a new place along the river, leaving the old ones to the creeping vines, the monkeys and the tree rats.

One of these abandoned capitals was Prome, still something of a trading center. Another was Pagan, where, Adoniram had read, Buddhism had been proclaimed Burma’s state religion eight centuries before. But others were completely uninhabited. In still others a handful of humans remained, their frail huts almost lost in the immense, confused expanses of crumbling masonry.

The farther northward they went, the less friendly were the people, the more frequent the warnings about pirates, but they were not actually molested until they had been on the river a month and were only four or five days below Ava.

Here, when they had anchored one evening under a little point of land, a large boat full of men suddenly swept from behind the point and headed straight for them at top speed. The missionaries’ headman warned it off, but it kept coming. At the last moment, when the men in the attacking craft seemed almost ready to board the missionaries’ vessel, the latter’s headman fired a musket close over the men in the attacker. The shot had its effect. The men in the attacker called out to the missionaries’ boat to leave off firing, and at the same moment the attacking boat itself sheered off sharply and fled away.

The incident gave them a sleepless night, but there were no further attacks and a few days later they were Close to Ava and out of the dangerous part of the river.

On January 25, 1820, after a trip of a little more than a month, they drew up to the landing place, about four miles below the capital. Even from here Adoniram and Colman could see “the golden steeple of the palace, amid the glittering pagodas.”

This was Ava, seat of the Golden Presence—that fabled Ava, heart of the mysterious golden empire of which Adoniram had read with kindling excitement in Symes’s Embassy t0 Ava, so long ago in prim Andover: the book which had done so much to crystallize in him his decision to become a foreign missionary.

Actually, as he now knew, there were now two Avas—“Old Ava,” seat of the preceding dynaSty, and “New Ava,” more usually known as Amarapura, a few miles farther upriver. The emperor lived in Amarapura, and it was below Amarapura that Adoniram’s boat had anchored about noon, opposite Sagaing, a hamlet remarkable for its numberless pagodas. For Sagaing in its day had also been the seat of emperors.1

For the remainder of the day Adoniram and Colman busied themselves in various ways. Early next morning they set out to arrange an audience with the emperor.

Even before leaving Rangoon, Adoniram had intended to ask Mya-day-men to secure an audience. As a Wungyi, Mya-day-men was one of the four high Burmese officials who made up the Hlutdau, the great council of State, which discharged at the emperor’s pleasure all the administrative, executive, legislative and judicial functions of the state. Only the four Atwinwuns who composed the emperor’s privy council enjoyed comparable power; and it was always a matter of debate among Burmans whether Wungyis or Atwinwuns really had the higher rank.

Adoniram’s acquaintance with Mya-day-men, it will be remembered, went all the way back to the time when he and Nancy, newcomers to Rangoon more than six years before, had paid him their reSpects as Viceroy. Then, they had been frightened by the tall, stern old man stalking about his palace with his great spear. But during his later term as Viceroy they had learned to know him better. His wife had become one of Nancy’s closest Burmese friends since little Roger’s death; and Mya-day-men himself, if not exactly a friend, certainly entertained friendly feelings toward the Judsons. Thus it was toward Mya-day—men’s house in the walled city four miles away that Adoniram and Colman set their steps, followed by a little retinue consisting of Maung Nau and three or four of the boat’s crew bearing gifts of valuable cloth.

On the way they stopped to see Mr. Gibson and Mr. Rodgers, who were living on the outskirts. Gibson, Adoniram hoped, might prove of real help to him. He was in favor at court and had not hesitated to stand up for the missionaries when the exorbitant demand for the “head tax” had been made on them at the time of the old emperor’s death. Of Rodgers they did not expect much. He

1 Today’s Mandalay, second largest city in Burma, is just a few miles upriver from the two Avas of Adoniram’s time. had never been willing to intercede for them in the past and now was out of favor at court. But courtesy required that they at least pay him a call.

The city of Amarapura itself, containing the palaces and government buildings, occupied a square area enclosed by a wall about three-quarters of a mile on a side. A brick pagoda perhaps a hundred feet high stood on each corner. At the gate, Adoniram inquired for the location of Mya-day—men’s house and was told by the keepers that it lay on the other side of the palace, a sprawling manyacred confusion of connected buildings with gilded roofs, surrounded by numberless pagodas. Around it were the elaborate houses of the high officials, each with its enclosure containing the dwellings, no more than ramshackle huts, of the servants and underlings. The hot season was still a month away and the air, although sunny, was dry and temperate, the unpaved streets dusty.

Mya-day-men softened into real warmth as he received Adoniram and his gift; and his wife, to whom Adoniram gave a less valuable one, had dozens of questions to ask about her friend Mrs. “Yoodthan”-—-as all the Burmese pronounced the name Judson. They were curious about Adoniram’s purpose in visiting the capital; Adoniram was tactfully vague on that score. He merely said that he and Colman had made the journey in order to behold the Golden Face, and begged the severe old viceroy to secure him the privilege.

Mya-day-men was more than willing. He immediately told Maung Yo, one of his favorite officials, to arrange with the Atwinwun Maung Zah, one of the emperor’s four privy councillors, for the interview. With so exalted a sponsor as Mya-day-men, Adoniram found his request fulfilled sooner than he expected. That evening Maung Yo called at the boat to tell the missionaries they would be conducted into the Golden Presence the very next day.

The night was an anxious one. The gentle, cradlelike rocking of their boat failed to lull them to sleep. All through the hours of darkness the two men lay wakefully in the cramped, thatched little cabin, sometimes preoccupied with their own thoughts, sometimes speculating in hushed voices on the reception they would meet on the morrow. At the first flush of dawn they rose, nervously set out the white surplice-like robes in which they intended to appear before the emperor, made a last inspection of the six volumes of the Bible on the covering of which they had Spent so much money for gold leaf, and settled down to wait for Maung Yo.

He came when the sun was well up and conducted them to Myaday-men’s palace. Maung Nau and several members of the crew of the boat followed them, bearing the emperor’s Bible and a gift for the Atwinwun Maung Zah. From Mya-day-men they learned that the emperor had been told they were in the city and had said, “Let them be introduced.” These words from the Gold Lips seemed a good omen, and they felt a little more hopeful of success.

Presently Maung Yo, at the head of his numerous retinue, led them through the sun-baked street to the emperor’s palace. After a long delay at the gate while official after official satisfied himself that their permits to enter were in order, they were ushered—after removing their shoes and leaving a present — into the Atwinwun Maung Zah’s columned reception chambers in the palace courtyard.

Though Maung Zah’s huge audience hall, thronged with hundreds of retainers and suppliants, was really only a sort of anteroom to the royal quarters, to Adoniram and Colman it looked impressive enough for an emperor in its own right. Maung Zah was seated at one side on a low dais. Before him sat—or rather squatted—the several dozens of dignitaries whose affairs were worthy of the attention of a privy councillor of the ruler. They were arranged by rank, governors and sub-kings in front, Others of less, though high, importance behind them. It was a tribute to Mya-day-men’s influence that the two missionaries were seated a little in advance of even the front row.

Affably Maung Zah asked them what they wanted. Adoniram explained their purpose: they were, as the Burmese expressed it, propagators of religion who wished to present to the emperor their sacred books and a certain petition. The petition he handed to Maung Zah, who took it, read about half, and then, mildly intereSted, asked a few questions about their religion which Adoniram answered as clearly, but as diplomatically, as he could.

Suddenly there was a stir in the audience hall. An official entered hurriedly and announced that the Golden Foot was about to advance. The interview ended abruptly. Maung Zah scrambled to his feet and began to don the robes of state held for him by attendants, hastily explaining to Adoniram and Colman as he did so that if he were to present them to the emperor it would have to be now. The crowd, except for the two or three who were to enter the presence of royalty, dissolved as if by magic, leaving the two missionaries seated almost alone in front of the frantically dressing Atwinwun.

For a while the Atwinwun forgot them as he busied himself with his robes and put on his tsalway, the golden chain of office with its twelve highly ornamented strands, highest permitted to any subject but a prince of the blood, which had to be passed over his left shoulder and displayed so as to cross on his breast.

A courtier took advantage of the interval to speak to Adoniram. Today was an unfortunate day for their purpose, be told them, with the melancholy satisfaction of one who enjoys bringing bad tidings. This was the day of celebration of the Burman victory over the Cassays. The Golden Feet were advancing with the intention that the Golden Eyes might look upon a military display. An inter~ ruption in order to hear a petition concerning a foreign religion might not be viewed with favor by those Eyes.

Adoniram and Colman were digesting this news when Maung Zah completed arraying himself, and said to them, “How can you propagate religion in this empire? But come along,” and hurried out of the room. With sinking hearts they followed him and Maung Yo through what seemed miles of splendid walks and corridors until they passed up a flight of stairs into a magnificent hall, so long as to seem nearly endless, every square inch of surface covered with gold, its lofty dome supported by hundreds of tall pillars.

Here they were led to an alcove or corner at one side and told to sit down. Next to them knelt Maung Zah, behind them Maung Y0 and another of Mya-day-men’s retainers. Now there was nothing to do but await the advance of the Golden Foot.

Adoniram employed the interval by looking around. They sat facing in the direction from which the emperor would appear. Since he would have to walk past them to reach the end which opened out on the parade grounds where the display was to take place, they were admirably placed to attract his attention.

The four of them were almost lost in the nearly empty room, which was so long it seemed all but endless; yet every square inch of visible surface was completely covered with gold leaf. Adoniram began to appreciate his presumption in petitioning a monarch who used such a room as a mere corridor. His fear grew as he realized how insignificant a gift his gold-covered Bible would seem to a ruler who saw nothing but gold wherever he turned his eyes. But it was too late for retreat now.

He had perhaps five minutes for such reflections. Then, without warning, every Burman in the room flung himself flat on the floor. From this position Maung Yo whispered to Adoniram that the Golden Feet had entered the room. The two missionaries did not prostrate themselves, but they did kneel, and, with their hands folded respectfully, waited to catch sight of the emperor.

The man who strode unattended toward them with “the proud gait and majeSty of an Eastern monarch,” although he had a “high aspect and commanding eye,” was impressive on account of his rank rather than for stature or costume. He was about twenty-eight years old, short, just a little over five feet tall, and extremely bandylegged. His expression was pleasant and good-humored but the appearance of his face was marred by a forehead which slanted sharply backward —an inherited peculiarity of the descendants of the emperor Alompra.

Around his legs and waist he wore a skirtlike checked silk cloth, the patso, of the bright scarlet reserved for royalty. His light jacket, the engyee, was of white muslin. Around his head he had knotted a handkerchief, turban-fashion, to hold his long hair. Although his attire was rich, the only thing about him that indicated royalty to Adoniram was the gold-sheathed sword he carried instead of a scepter.

As he drew near he caught sight of the two kneeling missionaries, the only people in the room who dared look at him and were not stretched flat on the floor. He stopped and turned partly toward Adoniram and Colman.

“Who are these?” he said.

Adoniram undertook to answer for himself. “The teachers, Great King,” he replied in Burmese.

The king was surprised. “What, you speak Burman?... The priests that I heard of last night? When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday, Your Majesty.”

The king was interested. He sat down on an elevated seat, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes studying the two men in a not unfriendly way.

“Are you teachers of religion?” he inquired. When Adoniram assented he asked a dozen or so other questions: Were they like the Portuguese priests? Were they married? Why did they dress as they did? Adoniram replied briefly and respectfully each time until the king appeared satisfied.

All this time Maung Zah and the other high officials had been lying with their faces pressed to the floor. Now, when the king seemed to have no more questions to ask, Maung Zah raised his head enough to read the missionaries’ petition.

The American teachers present themselves to receive the favor of the excellent king, the sovereign of land and sea [it began]. Hearing that, on account of the greatness of the royal power, the royal country was in a quiet and prosperous state, we arrived at the town of Rangoon, within the royal dominions, and having obtained leave from the governor of that town, to come up and behold the Golden Face, we have ascended, and reached the bottom of the Golden Feet.

In the great country of America [Maung Zah read on] we sustain the character of teachers and explainers of the contents of the sacred Scriptures of our religion. And since it is contained in those Scriptures, that, if we pass to other countries, and preach and propagate religion, great good will result, and both those who teach and those who receive the religion will be freed from future punishment, and enjoy, without decay or death, the eternal felicity of heaven — that royal permission be given, that we, taking refuge in the royal power, may preach our religion in these dominions, and that those who are pleased with our preaching, and wish to listen to and be guided by it, whether foreigners or Burmans, may be exempt from Government molestation, they present themselves to receive the favor of the excellent king, the sovereign of land and sea.

The king liStened quietly. Then he stretched out his hand. Maung Zah crawled forward and presented the petition. His Majesty took it and deliberately read it through, from top to bottom. Meanwhile, Adoniram passed to Maung Zah a carefully abridged and edited copy of the tract which Adoniram had written four years before. When the king had finished the petition he silently returned it to Maung Zah, who now handed him the tract. Watching the king take the tract, Adoniram prayed inwardly with all the fervor of his heart, “Oh, have mercy on Burma! Have mercy on her king!”

But King Bagyidaw merely read the opening sentences: “There is one Being who exists eternally; who is exempt from sickness, old age, and death; who is, and was, and will be, without beginning and without end. Besides this, the true God, there is no other God... .” Then he opened his hand with indifference and let the paper fall to the floor. Maung Zah picked it up and returned it to Adoniram.

There was a moment of deathly silence. Maung Yo, with some courage for a courtier, made an attempt to save the situation by opening one of the volumes of the Bible and showing it to the king, but the monarch took no notice.

The missionaries’ petition had been rejected.

Adoniram and Colman knelt in dejected silence as Maung Zah interpreted the king’s decision: “Why do you ask for such permission? Have not the Portuguese, the English, the Moslems, and people of all other religions, full liberty to practice and worship according to their own customs? In regard to the objects of your petition, His MajeSty gives no order. In regard to your sacred books, His Majesty has no use for them. Take them away.”

Someone— probably Maung Yo -—-—said that Colman had skill in medicine. The king ordered: “Let them proceed to the residence of my physician, the Portuguese priest. Let him examine whether they can be useful to me in that capacity, and report accordingly.”

Then he rose, strode on without a backward look to the end of the hall overlooking the parade ground, threw himself down on a cushion, and began to watch the military display. This was all Adoniram and Colman had time to see. They were hurried unceremoniously out of the audience hall and led back to the house of Mya-day-men. The king had been cold to their mission. No one in the palace wanted to have anything more to do with them.

Even so, however, Maung Yo did what he could to make things easier for them by giving the Wungyi as favorable a report of their reception by His Majesty as he could without actually being untruthful. As Mya-day-men did not know precisely what they had asked for, their rejection did not seem as serious to him as Adoniram knew it was. The meeting was short. Afterwards, the two were hurried two miles through the hot, dusty streets to the Portuguese priest. It took him only a few minutes to learn that Colman had no magic art which would protect the king’s health and make him live forever, and they were dismissed.

That afternoon they sat on the deck of the boat and discussed their rebuff. Was there any way of persuading the emperor to change his decision? If they saw Maung Zah at home could they gain at least a few concessions?

The next morning Gibson, who already knew what had happened, called on them. He agreed that if Maung Zah could be approached at his home there was at least a chance he might look on them more favorably. He took them to Maung Zah that afternoon. But the Burman was cold and distant, almost Openly hostile. He would not even listen to Adoniram, and Gibson had to do most of the talking. Maung Zah made it plain that even petitioning for religious toleration for the Burmans had been an almost unpardonable offense.

Gibson, doggedly advancing every argument he could think of, finally pointed out that if the American missionaries could win royal favor, other foreigners would settle in Burma, and trade would improve. This was the only idea which seemed to affect Maung Zah at all. “Looking out from the cloud which covered his face, he vouchsafed to say, that if we would wait some time, he ‘would endeavor to speak to his majesty about us.”

Adoniram and Colman walked the four miles from Maung Zah’s house to the boat in the moonlight. The miles of walking in the heat each day, the tension and the repeated discouragements, _had so exhausted them that for once they threw themselves on their mattresses and fell asleep without even trying to think of any more expedients.

In the morning, however, they made one more attempt by sending a message requesting Gibson to ask Maung Zah whether they might advance their cause by remaining in the capital for several months. Gibson brought them Maung Zah’s reply the next day. Maung Zah had said, “Tell them, that there is not the least possibility of obtaining the object stated in this paper, should they wait ever so long.”

Furthermore, added Gibson, the emperor had decided to open war with Siam. He would have no time for the missionaries. In the fall he planned to march in person to Pegu, below Rangoon, to set up his campaign headquarters. If they saw him at all, it would have to be there. Gibson agreed to give Maung Zah a copy of the tract, but he had no hope that it would have any effect. They knew that if Gibson said their cause was hopeless, it was. With heavy hearts they decided to depart.

First, however, they paid a call on Mr. Rodgers, of course more out of courtesy than from any feeling that he could or would help. But he gave them one piece of information which told them why their effort had failed, and why, in all probability, any future efforts would fail.

Adoniram had heard from his old teacher, U Aung Min, of the one Burman who had become a Christian some fifteen years before and had been tortured for his belief. Rodgers, it now turned out, had witnessed the whole affair. The man, a teacher at Ava of important family and outstanding ability, had been converted by the Roman Catholics and sent to Rome for study. On his’ return his nephew, then a Thau-dau—sen, a secretary of the Atwinwuns, had denounced him for forswearing his country’s religion. With the emperor’s approval, the nephew had thrown his uncle into prison and had him tortured. When he would not recant he was beaten with an iron maul inch by inch from the feet to the breast. Rodgers had been present at this beating and had paid the executioners to strike as gently as possible.

But the man would not recant. To save him, some of the people close to the emperor told him the man was insane, and he was released. The Portuguese priests took him secretly out of the country and sent him to Bengal, where he ended his days. Since then, the priests had never tried to convert Burmans, but had confined their labors to their own congregations of descendants of the Portuguese mercenaries of old, who were permitted to be Christians by custom and law.

Up to this point little in the story told by Rodgers was new to Adoniram. He had learned most of it from U Aung Min long ago, and its lesson had not deterred him from trying to convert Burmans. But one thing Rodgers told him was new: The nephew, the Thau- 2 5 4 T H E D A N G E R O U S dau—sen who had accused and tortured his uncle, was now an Atwinwun himself, one of the four privy councillors to the king—and not only an Atwinwun, but the first, ahead of even Maung Zah, who had introduced the two Americans into the emperor’s presence. With such a man having the imperial ear, Maung Zah could accomplish nothing for them even if he wished.

Worse still, went on Rodgers, the chief queen, the first of His Majesty’s wives, was a fanatical Buddhist, and had acquired such power over the king that he was practically under her thumb. She had been daughter of a jailer, a member of the most degraded class in Burma. She was older than the king. Somehow, with incredible cunning and ruthlessness she had raised her status from mere concubine to first wife. Her suspiciousness and vindictiveness were well known in court circles. People whispered that she was a sorceress. How else could a woman of such origin rise to ascendancy over the ruler? But sorceress or not, said Rodgers, Adoniram and Colman must see the hopelessness of their mission.

Adoniram knew that Rodgers had reasons of his own, connected with his intrigue for power, to discourage Christian missionaries ——or any white men, for that matter—from staying in Burma. But in this case he knew Rodgers was telling the truth.

Only the day after the king had rejected their petition, he had given a great feast in the palace for all the Buddhist priests in the surrounding villages. At the same time he had created a hundred new priests, some of them sons of noblemen.

The intent of the new ruler was plain. Against it Christian missionaries stood no chance at all, Adoniram and Colman agreed. Sadly they returned to their boat and the next day applied for a passport to leave the capital.

Getting the passport took five days of petitioning and bribery. During that time they learned that Maung Zah had read their tract and kept it, saying, “The doctrine and commands are very good ——but it will be a long time before Burmans can be convinced there is a God and Saviour.”

Gibson had even dared to mention them again to the emperor, but the emperor had merely laughed and replied, “What, they have come presuming to convert us to their religion! Let them leave our capital. We have no desire to receive their instructions. Perhaps they may find some of their countrymen in Rangoon who may be willing to listen to them.”

The king’s open contempt worried Gibson. He warned Adoniram and Colman that they had better secure a royal order protecting them against personal molestation. “Otherwise,” he said, “as it will be notorious that you have solicited royal patronage and been refused, you will lie at the mercy of every ill-disposed person.”

But an order like the one Gibson advised would cost several hundred ticals and they could not afford it. They would have to put their trust in the Lord.

No one could have been more discouraged than Adoniram when, on the sixth of February, their boat started down-river. They had Spent much time and money, only to fail. Worse, they had staked all their future prospects on this one attempt to gain royal favor. In losing, they had not only failed to help their own cause, they had hurt it. The news would follow them —-perhaps even precede them—down the river and it was not hard to imagine the effect it would have in Rangoon.

No wonder Adoniram wrote that day, juSt before the boat shoved OE:

I could moralize half an hour on the apt resemblance, the beautiful congruity, between the desolate state of our feelings and the sandy barren surface of this miserable beach. But “’tis idle all.” Let the beach and our sorrow go together. Something better will turn up tomorrow.