Dagon Shwe Mwe - Chit U Thet Lya

Chapter (1)

Teaching French

I, Alan Quatermain, have taken up writing as a hobby in my old age, but I have never written a single word about my “dearest” life, which is full of surprises and sorrows. Because those things seem to me to be too distant and too lofty a heaven for me to contain the spirit of the noble ‘Mary Murray.’ But now

That thing, which had been far away from me for ages, was slowly coming closer to me. In the night sky, surrounded by stars, the great doors through which I had to pass were wide open and the sun was shining. I imagined that the shadow of Mary Murray, forgotten by everyone but me, was stretching out her arms and looking down from the great door.

This is nothing but an old man's dream. The history of a man who has sacrificed so much in his life that it is impossible to read it with the eyes of a human being until he has passed away from this world, but I have tried to write it down. I am the only one left who knows and can speak for the truth of the cause of the boy who generously bestowed his noble love on someone as precious as me, and I am still happy that I am alive. And I still wonder what I did to deserve the love of two women like Mary and Stella (she has been dead for a long time, so I have only spoken to one person about Mary). I thought at first that Stella would think something of the same about Mary, but that was not the case. During the time we were married, she would often talk about Mary, and some of the last things she said were that she would go and find Mary, and that she would be waiting for me in the world of pure love.

After Stella's death, I had come to the end of my life, and in the years that followed, I never spoke a word of love to any woman. But I will confess one thing. Once, a Zulu witch doctor spoke words of love to me, and with her brilliant skills, she changed my head for about an hour. I only say this because I want to be honest. In that case, my heart was not in it, but my head, and I soon returned to my true state. The girl was "Mamina," and I have written about her in a separate story.

Now let me begin my story. As I have written in another book, I was living with my father, a Church of England priest, in a district now called "Ardee" in the Cape Colony. At that time, those districts

It is still in a relatively barbaric state, and there is a very small population of white people. Among our few neighbors , who live about 15 minutes from our place, is a beautiful farm called "Mary Fountain."

There was also a large farmer of the Boer tribe, named Henry Murray. I have called him Boer. However, if we look at his Christian name and his traditional name, we can see that he was descended from his ancestor, Hughie Murray, who was also called Henry Murray. The name Murray was one of the earliest of those who fled to South Africa to escape the brutal persecution of the 14th Lusitania King during the Episcopal (F)nanti Rebellion.

Unlike other ancestors, the Marais never forgot their origins, and so they were taught French continuously from father to son. They often spoke of it among themselves as a "fashion." Moreover, the devout Henry Murray, who recited his Bible in the morning, according to the custom of the Boers, did not read it in Dutch, but in old French. Many years ago, I happened to find this great book by a strange coincidence at an auction of trinkets, and when I opened the leather cover of the book, I suddenly burst into tears. In the book, as is customary in the old days, I found on the loose pages a detailed account of how the original Henry Murray and his followers were expelled from France on religious grounds after the murder of his father, and of the births, marriages, and deaths of his descendants. Towards the end of the account, the births of Henry Murray and his only sister are written. Next The day he married "Mary La Bachchan", and the following year, the birthday of Mary Murray (my Mary), followed by the death of his mother after a long and turbulent marriage, when no son or daughter was born. Then, suddenly, the following strange lines appeared.

'Like my descendants who fled from the hands of the cruel Louis XIV, I fled to this country on the 3rd of January, 1836, to escape the cursed British government.

"May the cruel kings and ministers fall, and may independence endure forever."

By supporting the above, the character and ideas of Henry Murray, as well as the attitudes of the trai bao bao (the bao bao who traveled around with carts) of that time, are clearly revealed.

Here the record ends, and his descendants are cut off, and the story of Henry Murray is complete. I will tell you their final story in the following.

Mary and I met not because of any significant events in our love life, such as me saving her from a wild boar attack or from drowning, but because we spent our time sitting face to face at a small table, chatting naturally.

Many years after my father had moved to the Cape, Henry Murray (I think he was missing a cow) came to our house one day. He was a small, slender man with a thick beard and dark eyes, not unlike a Dutchman. My father welcomed him warmly and even gave him dinner.

They spoke to each other in French, which my father understood a little. My father, however, did not speak Dutch, either because he could not or did not want to, and Mr. Murray did not like to speak English. Although they were not very fluent, they conversed quite well. Finally, Mr. Murray, with his short hair and pointed nose, asked me if I would like to teach him French, and my father replied that he would like to.

So I arranged to go to Murray Fountain for two days a week to learn French from a teacher whom Mr. Murray had hired to teach his daughter that French and other subjects. I also remember that I had agreed with him to pay a portion of the teacher's salary.

The fields between Murray Fountain and our place were very rich in game, such as wild fowl and deer, and I, being a good shot from that age, and having been allowed to carry a gun, readily agreed to the above arrangement without any objection. Accordingly, on the day appointed, I rode to Murray Fountain on horseback, accompanied by a servant of the Hawthorn tribe, named Han. I had hunted happily along the way, and when I reached the farm, I had with me a cock and two pheasants, and a young deer, which I had fortunately shot between the rocks.

A peach orchard had been planted around the fountain, and at that time it was covered with beautiful pink flowers. I, not knowing the way home, slowly rode my horse through it, feeling uncertain, and saw the peach blossoms.

Suddenly, a tall, slender girl appeared in front of me, wearing a dress that was exactly the same color as the one I was wearing. I still remember her dark hair, flowing back, and her wide, shy eyes , staring at me from under the shade of a Dutch hat called a "camie."

I pulled the reins of my horse and stopped, feeling shy and not knowing what to say, I stared back at him. After we stared at each other for a long time, he began to speak in a soft, sweet voice.

"Aren't you the girl from Aland who said you'd come and learn French with me?" he asked in Dutch, which I was good at, and...

"Yes, but wait, why do you call me a child? I'm even taller than you," he said firmly.

"I don't think you're tall, but get off your horse, and we'll see each other on this big wall."

So I dismounted, and after checking my shoes (I was wearing large, rough leather boots at the time) to make sure my hooves were not too high, he took the unframed slate he had brought, pressed it against my short hair, and with the point of a stone, scratched a large mark on the sandstone wall.

"I've finished measuring, now, Alan, measure me or it's your turn."

So I measured his height and found that he was half an inch taller than me.

"You're standing on tiptoe," I said reluctantly.

"Standing on tiptoe is like lying to God, you little brat. I have other faults, but you will understand when you get to know me that I have never lied."

I thought I was being scolded for saying that. Because he was a grown man and continued with great composure, "Why are you so angry that God made me taller than you? Especially since I am much taller than you. My father told me the same thing. "Come on, let's write our names on these marks, so that in a year or two you will see how much taller you will be than me."

Then he used a stone to make his mark more permanent, and I wrote ' Alan ' on mine.

(About 10 or 12 years ago I happened to pass by Mary Fountain once more. Although it had been rebuilt, the wall was still standing. So I rode up to it and looked, and there I saw Mary's name, which had been dimly visible until then, and the large mark I had carved beside it. My name and the measurements had been gradually eroded away by the sand over the past forty years. When I saw that her name was still there, I thought that my fate was worse than the one I had found in the Bible I had bought from Marycott.