It is better, says a Chinese proverb, “to hear about a thing than to
see it,” and truly on this journey I was much inclined to agree with
that dictum.
We were bound for Hsieh Ts'un. I can't pronounce it, and I should not
like to swear to the spelling, but of one thing I am very sure, not one
of the inhabitants could spell it, or even know it was wrongly set forth
to the world, so I am fairly safe.
We went under the archway with the theatrical notices at Liu Lin Chen,
under the arched gateway of the village, out into the open country, and
it began to rain again. It came down not exactly in torrents but good
steady growing rain. The roads when they were not slippery stones were
appalling quagmires, and my mule litter always seemed to be overhanging
a precipice of some sort. I was not very comfortable when that precipice
was only twenty feet deep, when it was more I fervently wished that I
had not come to China. I wished it more than once, and it rained and it
rained and it rained, silent, soaking, penetrating rain, and I saw the
picturesque mountain country through a veil of mist.
Hsieh Ts'un is a little dirty straggling village, and as we entered it
through the usual archway with a watch tower above the setting sun broke
through the thick clouds and his golden rays strcamed down upon the
slippery wet cobblestones that paved the principal street. The golden
sunlight and the gorgeous rainbow glorified things a little, and they
needed glorifying. The principal inn, as usual, was a fairly large yard,
roughly paved, but swimming now in dirty water; there were stalls for
animals all round it, and there was a large empty shed where they stored
lime. It was stone-paved, and the roof leaked like a sieve, but here I
established myself, dodging as far as possible the holes in the roof and
drawing across the front of the shed my litter as a sort of protection,
for the inn, as usual with these mountain inns, had but one room.
It was cold, it was dirty, and I realised how scarce foreigners must
be when through the misty, soaking rain, which generally chokes off a
Chinaman, crowds came to stand round and stare at me. I was stationary,
so the women came, dirty, ragged, miserable-looking women, supporting
themselves with sticks and holding up their babies to look at the
stranger while she ate. By and by it grew so cold I felt I must really
go to bed, and I asked Mr Wang to put it to the crowd that it was not
courteous to stare at the foreign woman when she wished to be alone,
and, O most courtly folk! every single one of those people went away.
“You can have a bath,” said he, “no one will look”; and, all honour
give I to those poor peasants of Western Shansi, I was undisturbed. I am
afraid a lonely Chinese lady would hardly be received with such courtesy
in an English village were the cases reversed.
Next day the rain still teemed down. The fowls pecked about the yard,
drenched and dripping; a miserable, mangy, cream-coloured dog or two
came foraging for a dinner, and the people, holding wadded coats and
oiled paper over their heads, came to look again at the show that had
come to the town; but there was no break in the grey sky, and there was
nothing to do but sit there shivering with cold, writing letters on my
little travelling table and listening to my interpreter, who talked with
the innkeeper and brought me at intervals that gentleman's views on the
doings of Pai Lang.
Those views varied hour by hour. At first he was sure he was attacking
Sui Te Chou. That seemed to me sending the famous robber over
the country too quickly. Then it was _tufeis_--that is, bands of
robbers--that Sui Te Chou feared, and finally, boiled down, I came to
the conclusion that Sui Te Chou had probably shut her gates because the
country round was disturbed, and that she admitted no one who had not
friends in the city or could not in some way guarantee his good faith.
It served to show me my friends in Ki Hsien had been right, such
disturbed country would be no place for a woman alone. I suppose it was
the rain and the grey skies, but I must admit that day I was distinctly
unhappy and more than a little afraid. I was alone among an alien
people, who only regarded me as a cheap show; I had no one to take
counsel with, my interpreter only irritated me and, to add to my misery,
I was very cold. I have seldom put in a longer or more dreary day than
I did at Hsieh Ts'un. There was absolutely nothing to do but watch the
misty rain, for if I went outside and got wetter than I was already
getting under the leaking roof--I wore my Burberry--I had no possible
means of drying my clothes save by laying them on the hot _k'ang_ in the
solitary living-room of the inn, and that was already inhabited by many
humans and the parasites that preyed upon them. Therefore I stayed where
I was, compared my feet with the stumps of the women who came to visit
me--distinctly I was a woman's show--gave the grubby little children
raisins, and wondered if there was any fear of Pai Lang coming along
this way before I had time to turn back. If it kept on raining, would my
muleteers compel me to stay here till Pai Lang swept down upon us?
But no, that thought did not trouble me, first, because I momentarily
expected it to clear up, and secondly, because I was very sure that
any rain that kept me prisoner would also hold up Pai Lang. I could not
believe in a Chinaman, even a robber, going out in the rain if he could
help himself, any more than I could believe in it raining longer than a
day in China.
“The people are not afraid,” I said to my interpreter as I looked at
a worn old woman in a much-patched blue cotton smock and trousers, her
head protected from the rain by a wadded coat in the last stages of
decrepitude; her feet made me shiver, and her finger-nails made me
crawl, the odour that came from her was sickening, but she liked to see
me write, and I guessed she had had but few pleasures in her weary life.
“They not knowing yet,” said he; “only travellers know. They tell
innkeeper.”
Yes, certainly the travellers would know best.
And all day long he came, bringing me various reports, and said that,
according to the innkeeper, the last caravan that had passed through
had gone back on its tracks. I might have remembered it. I did remember
it--a long line of donkeys and mules.
But the day passed, and the night passed, and the next day the sun came
out warm and pleasant, and all my doubts were resolved. My journey was
broken beyond hope, and I must go back, but turn I would not till I had
looked upon the Yellow River.
We started with all our paraphernalia. We were to turn in our tracks
after tiffin, but Mr Wang and the muleteers were certain on that point,
everything I possessed must be dragged across the mountains if I hoped
to see it again, and I acquiesced, for I certainly felt until I got back
to civilisation I could not do without any of my belongings.
Almost immediately we left the village we began to ascend the mountain
pass. Steeper and steeper it grew, and at last the opening in my mule
litter was pointing straight up to the sky, and I, seeing there
was nothing else for it, demanded to be lifted out and signified my
intention of walking.
There was one thing against this and that was an attack of
breathlessness. Asthma always attacks me when I am tired or worried, and
now, with a very steep mountain to cross and no means of doing it except
on my own feet, it had its wicked way. My master of transport and Mr
Wang, like perfectly correct Chinese servants, each put a hand under my
elbows, and with Buchanan skirmishing around joyfully, rejoicing that
for once his mistress was sensible, the little procession started. It
was hard work, very hard work. When I could go no longer I sat down and
waited till I felt equal to starting again. On the one hand the mountain
rose up sheer and steep, on the other it dropped away into the gully
beneath, only to rise again on the other side. And yet in the most
inaccessible places were patches of cultivation and wheat growing. I
cannot imagine how man or beast kept a footing on such a slant, and
how they ploughed and sowed it passes my understanding. But most of the
mountain-side was too much even for them, and then they turned loose
their flocks, meek cream-coloured sheep and impudent black goats, to
graze on the scanty mountain pastures. Of course they were in charge of
a shepherd, for there were no fences, and the newly springing wheat must
have been far more attractive than the scanty mountain grasses.
And then I knew it was worth it all--the long trek from Fen Chou Fu,
the dreary day at Hsieh Ts'un, the still more dreary nights, this stiff
climb which took more breath than I had to spare--for the view when
I arrived at a point of vantage was beautiful. These were strange
mountains. The road before me rose at a very steep angle, and all around
me were hill-sides whereon only a goat or a sheep might find foothold,
but the general effect looked at from a distance was not of steepness.
These were not mountains, rugged, savage, grand, they were gentle hills
and dales that lay about me; I had come through them; there were more
ahead; I could see them range after range, softly rounded, green and
brown and then blue, beautiful for all there were no trees, in an
atmosphere that was clear as a mirror after the rain of the day before.
Beautiful, beautiful, with a tender entrancing loveliness, is that view
over the country up in the hills that hem in the Yellow River as it
passes between Shansi and Shensi. Is it possible there is never anyone
to see it but these poor peasants who wring a hard livelihood from the
soil, and who for all their toil, which lasts from daylight to dark all
the year round, get from this rich soil just enough wheaten flour to
keep the life in them, a hovel to dwell in, and a few unspeakable
rags to cover their nakedness? As far as I could see, everyone was
desperately poor, and yet these hills hold coal and iron in close
proximity, wealth untold and unexploited. The pity of it! Unexploited,
the people are poor to the verge of starvation; worked, the delicate
loveliness of the country-side will vanish as the beauty of the Black
Country has vanished, and can we be sure that the peasant will benefit?
[Illustration: 0166]
[Illustration: 0167]
Still we went up and up, and the climbing of these gentle wooing hills
I found hard. Steep it was, and at last, just when I felt I could not
possibly go any farther, though the penalty were that I should turn back
almost within sight of the river, I found that the original makers of
the track had been of the same opinion, for here was the top of the pass
with a tunnel bored through it, a tunnel perhaps a hundred feet long,
carefully bricked, and when we, breathless and panting, walked through
we came out on a little plateau with a narrow road wandering down a
mountain-side as steep as the one we had just climbed. There was the
most primitive of restaurants here, and the woman in charge--it was a
woman, and her feet were not bound--proffered us a thin sort of drink
like very tasteless barley water. At least now I know it was tasteless,
then I found it was nectar, and I sat on a stone and drank it
thankfully, gave not a thought to the dirt of the bowl that contained
it, and drew long breaths and looked around me.
The hills rose up on either hand and away in the distance where they
opened out were the beautiful treeless hills of forbidden Shensi, just
as alluring, just as peaceful as the hills I had come through. It was
worth the long and toilsome journey, well worth even all my fears.
Then we went down, down, but I did not dare get into my litter, the way
was too steep, the chances of going over too great, for it seems the
Chinese never make a road if by any chance they can get along without.
They were driven to bore a tunnel through the mountains, but they never
smooth or take away rocks as long as, by taking a little care, an animal
can pass without the certainty of going over the cliff.
And at last through a cleft in the hills I saw one of the world's great
rivers and--was disappointed. The setting was ideal. The hills rose
up steep and rugged, real mountains, on either side, pheasants called,
rock-doves mourned, magpies chattered, overhead was a clear blue sky
just flecked here and there with fleecy clouds, beyond again were the
mountains of Shensi, the golden sunlight on their rounded tops, purple
shadow in their swelling folds, far away in the distance they melted
blue into the blue sky, close at hand they were green with the green
of springtime, save where the plough had just turned up patches of rich
brown soil, and at their foot rolled a muddy flood that looked neither
decent water nor good sound earth, the mighty Hoang-Ho, the Yellow
River, China's sorrow. China's sorrow indeed; for though here it was
hemmed in by mountains, and might not shift its bed, it looked as if it
were carrying the soul of the mountains away to the sea.
There is a temple where the gully opens on to the river, a temple and
a little village, and the temple was crowded with blue-clad,
shabby-looking soldiers who promptly swarmed round me and wanted to
look in my baggage, that heavy baggage we were hauling for safety over
fourteen miles of mountain road. Presumably they were seeking arms. We
managed to persuade them there were none, and that the loads contained
nothing likely to disturb the peace, and then we went down to the river,
crossing by a devious, rocky and unpleasant path simply reeking of human
occupancy, and the inhabitants of that soldier village crowded round me
and examined everything I wore and commented on everything I did.
They were there to guard the crossing; and far from me be it to say they
were not most efficient, but if so their looks belied them. They did not
even look toy soldiers. No man was in full uniform. Apparently they
wore odd bits, as if there were not enough clothes in the company to go
round, and they were one and all dirty, touzly, untidy, and all
smiling and friendly and good-tempered. I only picked them out from
the surrounding country people--who were certainly dirty and
poverty-stricken enough in all conscience--by the fact that the soldiers
had abandoned the queue which the people around, like all these country
people, still affect. The soldier wore his hair about four or five
inches long, sticking out at all angles, rusty-black, unkempt and
uncombed, and whether he ran to a cap or not, the result was equally
unworkmanlike.
I conclude Chun Pu is not a very important crossing. What the road is
like on the Shensi side I do not know, but on the Shansi side I should
think the pass we had just crossed was a very effective safeguard. He
would be a bold leader who would venture to bring his men up that path
in the face of half-a-dozen armed men, and they need not be very bold
men either. Those soldiers did not look bold. They were kindly, though,
and they had women and children with them--I conclude their own, for
they nursed the grubby little children, all clad in grubby patches, very
proudly, took such good care they had a good view of the show--me--that
I could not but sympathise with their paternal affection and aid in
every way in my power. Generally my good-will took the form of raisins.
I was lavish now I had given up my journey, and my master of transport
distributed with an air as if I were bestowing gold and silver.
He set out my table on the cobble-stones of the inn-yard in the
sunshine. I believe, had I been a really dignified traveller, I should
have put up with the stuffiness and darkness of the inn's one room, but
I felt the recurrent hard-boiled eggs and puffed rice, with a certain
steamed scone which contained more of the millstone and less of the
flour than was usual even with the scones of the country, were trials
enough without trying to be dignified in discomfort.
And while I had my meal everybody took it in turns to look through the
finder of my camera, the women, small-footed, dirty creatures, much to
the surprise of their menfolk, having precedence. Those women vowed they
had never seen a foreigner before. Every one of them had bound feet,
tiny feet on which they could just totter, and all were clad
in extremely dirty, much-patched blue cotton faded into a dingy
dirt-colour. Most of them wore tight-fitting coverings of black cloth to
cover their scalps, often evidently to conceal their baldness, for many
of them suffered from “expending too much heart.” Baldness is caused,
say the Chinese half in fun, because the luckless man or woman has
thought more of others than of themselves. I am afraid they do not
believe it, or they may like to hide their good deeds, for they are
anything but proud of being bald. Most of the mouths, too, here, and
indeed all along the road, were badly formed and full of shockingly
broken and decayed teeth, the women's particularly. Wheaten flour, which
is the staple food of Shansi, is apparently not enough to make good
teeth. The people were not of a markedly Mongolian type. Already it
seemed as if the nations to the West were setting their seal upon them,
and some of the younger girls, with thick black hair parted in the
middle, a little colour in their cheeks, and somewhat pathetic,
wistful-looking faces, would have been good-looking in any land.
Then I had one more good look at the river, my farthest point west on
the journey, the river I had come so far to see. It was all so peaceful
in the afternoon sunlight that it seemed foolish not to go on. The hills
of Shensi beckoned and all my fears fell from me. I wanted badly to
go on. Then came reason. It was madness to risk the _tufeis_ with whom
everyone was agreed Shensi swarmed. There in the brilliant sunshine,
with the laughing people around me, I was not afraid, but when night
fell--no, even if the soldiers would have allowed, which Mr Wang
declared they would not--I dared not, and I turned sadly and regretfully
and made my way back to Fen Chou Fu.
Had I gone on I should have arrived in Russia with the war in full
swing, so on the whole? am thankful I had to flee before the _tufeis_
of Shensi. Perhaps when the world is at peace I shall essay that
fascinating journey again. Only I shall look out for some companion, and
even if I take the matchless master of transport I shall most certainly
see to it that I have a good cook.