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XXII
Maxwell’s death had caused a profound shock in Kyauktada. It would cause a shock throughout the
whole of Burma, and the case–‘the Kyauktada case, do you remember?’–would still be talked of
years after the wretched youth’s name was forgotten. But in a purely personal way no one was much
distressed. Maxwell had been almost a nonentity–just a ‘good fellow’ like any other of the ten
thousand ex colore good fellows of Burma–and with no close friends. No one among the Europeans
genuinely mourned for him. But that is not to say that they were not angry. On the contrary, for the
moment they were almost mad with rage. For the unforgivable had happened–a white man had been
killed. When that happens, a sort of shudder runs through the English of the East. Eight hundred
people, possibly, are murdered every year in Burma; they matter nothing; but the murder of a white
man is a monstrosity, a sacrilege. Poor Maxwell would be avenged, that was certain. But only a
servant or two, and the Forest Ranger who had brought in his body, and who had been fond of him,
shed any tears for his death.
On the other hand, no one was actually pleased, except U Po Kyin.
‘This is a positive gift from heaven!’ he told Ma Kin. ‘I could not have arranged it better myself.
The one thing I needed to make them take my rebellion seriously was a little bloodshed. And here it
is! I tell you Kin Kin, every day I grow more certain that some higher power is working on my
behalf.’
‘Ko Po Kyin, truly you are without shame! I do not know how you dare to say such things. Do you
not shudder to have murder upon your soul?’
‘What! I? Murder upon my soul? What are you talking about? I have never killed so much as a
chicken in my life.’
‘But you are profiting by this poor boy’s death.’
‘Profiting by it! Of course I am profiting by it! And why not, indeed? Am I to blame if somebody
else chooses to commit murder? The fisherman catches fish, and he is damned for it. But are we
damned for eating the fish? Certainly not. Why not eat the fish, once it is dead? You should study the
scriptures more carefully, my dear Kin Kin.’
The funeral took place next morning, before breakfast. All the Europeans were present, except
Verrall, who was careering about the maidan quite as usual, almost opposite the cemetery. Mr
Macgregor read the burial service. The little group of Englishmen stood round the grave, their topis in
their hands, sweating into the dark suits that they had dug out from the bottoms of their boxes. The
harsh morning light beat without mercy upon their faces, yellower than ever against the ugly, shabby