SHANGHAI
After having said a hearty farewell to our captain and his officers, we
mounted a canoe steered with one oar, and went ashore. Mr. Redding, our
Consul, was on the quay to meet us. He proposed for us to put up at his
house, but the invitation was declined with thanks. We preferred to stop
at the Hôtel des Colonies, situated in the French Concession, to which we
drove in Mr. Redding’s carriage. The French Concession is a real French
corner with its own law court, municipality, police, etc.
The city rather disappointed me with its modern appearance, and wide
crowded streets bearing French names, lined with houses of European
architecture and brilliant shops. Shanghai is the city of great
international commerce in the extreme Orient. The French, English
and Americans possess concessions which they rent from the Chinese
Government. Each concession has its own Consul.
All the first storey of our hotel is put to our disposal, each apartment
has its own bathroom. I had to lock myself in to avoid the native
merchants, who enter without knocking at the door, all smiles and making
funny little bows.
In the afternoon we started in a litter, carried on the shoulders of
four porters, to inspect the curiosities of the native town. It was a
new mode of locomotion to us. The streets for the most part are two or
three yards broad, and full of local colour. I looked out at everything
with wondering eyes, it’s all so strange! The houses of the rich are
built of stone, and those of the poor, with lumps of earth mixed with
chopped straw. Nearly every house has a small courtyard surrounded by a
high wall, a low door is cut in this wall giving access to the street. We
see a fat Chinese merchant dressed in a blue silk robe, sitting in front
of one of these doors, fanning himself in a melancholy manner. At the
next door a barber is shaving his client in the open air. We are carried
now through a street full of shops; their fronts disappear completely
behind gilded planks hung up vertically, bearing hieroglyphic signs.
The shopkeeper sits on the floor of his shop, surrounded by his various
goods. He never rises to customers, for everything is within reach of his
hand. Women never meddle with trade, which is solely in the hands of the
men. “Ladies first,” we say in the west; in the east it is “ladies last”;
their sphere is the back-room. The whole duty of a woman is to worship
and wait upon her husband, who is lord and master in its most exacting
sense.
The streets are full of life and movement. Chinese women, enveloped in
long blue shirts, plod on their deformed feet. Fat, grotesque-looking
Chinese maggots sprawl in splendid victorias. Curious one-wheeled
vehicles are pushed by a vigorous coolie, bearing one passenger only,
sitting at one end of a plank put on the top of the enormous wheel,
making balance to his goods and chattels placed on the other end of the
plank. As “time is not money” in the Orient, the fare of a run which
lasts sometimes half-a-day, with many halts, is only one farthing! We met
a “towkee,” or mandarin, arrayed in a marvellous costume embroidered with
silk and gold, who was conveyed in a rich palanquin, surrounded by many
attendants who beat the drum all the way. Further on our carriers stopped
to make way for a funeral procession, preceded by Chinamen sounding
the horn and beating the drum. The deceased is carried in a large box
ornamented with a metal dragon. Behind came the hired women mourners,
with their plaintive wail. The whole procession is arrayed in white, the
mourning colour in China. On our way back we passed along the Bund, in
the English section, a pleasant little park to which no Chinaman, be he
a coolie or a mandarin, was admitted, and traversed the broad, grassy
Maidan, the European rendezvous, where Englishmen and Americans, in
spotless flannels, played cricket or football. On the pier we saw a flag
signalling a tempest coming on. How annoying! We shall have to wait here
until the typhoon passes away. In different places placards announced
the arrival of Antoine Kontski, the celebrated pianist, Beethoven’s last
disciple.
September 28th.—My husband was invited by the French authorities to visit
Zi-ka-wai, a small colony established by the Jesuits, two miles from
Shanghai. The reverend fathers on leaving France take an oath never to
return to their native land. On arriving in this far-away country, they
put on the Chinese costume, and, cross in hand—their only weapon—they go
about fearlessly, preaching Christianity in the very centre of fanaticism
and hatred of the white race. Sergy saw a group of monks sitting under
the palms, watching their long-tressed pupils who played tennis.
September 29th.—To-day our Consul gave a dinner-party at which Kontski
was present. The old mæstro is 82 years old, but does not appear more
than 60. He has much humour in him, and kept the attention of the whole
table with his amusing anecdotes.
September 30th.—We took passage to-day on the _Melbourne_ one of the
finest steamers of the Méssageries Maritimes. We slipped down the Woosung
on board the _Chenan_ a small steamboat which transported the passengers
from Shanghai to the big ocean vessels, which could not enter the mouth
of the Woosung.
When we stepped on board the _Melbourne_ the captain met us in full naval
uniform with big epaulettes and a three-cornered hat. The commander of
a Russian cruiser moored in the harbour, and the chief admiral of the
French fleet came also to pay their respects to my husband.
We started in the afternoon on our way to the equatorial regions. Whilst
we passed before the _Khabarovsk_, the sailors waved their caps and
cheered us loudly.
There are about fifty first-class passengers on the _Melbourne_. Kontski
and his wife have also taken passage on that boat. The celebrated Polish
pianist proved a most cheery and entertaining companion. Though the aged
mæstro has passed his eightieth birthday, his spring-like vigour and
abounding vitality are surprising; he defies the march of time. Kontski
speaks five languages with equal facility. His wit is sparkling. During
five o’clock tea he told us a number of rather risky anecdotes which
kept his neighbours in fits of laughter. When I handed the old mæstro
his cup of tea, asking him if he had sugar enough, he said, “Everything
proceeding from the hands of Your Excellence can’t be otherwise than
excellent!” Gallant old man!
Between the hours of five and seven the passengers take their siesta
on deck, sitting down in canvas chairs and fading slowly into a deep
slumber, conscious of the rhythmic throbbing of the engine and of the
beat of warm air on their cheek.
At eight o’clock the gong sounded for dinner. The captain would have me
placed next him; at my left hand sat the Director of the French Post, a
Corsican bearing the high-sounding name of Casanova. That compatriot of
Bonaparte leads, as it seems to me, the depraved life that his famous
namesake did before him. He said gallant things to me, and related
scandalous stories about his amorous exploits.
After dinner we expected that Kontski would play the piano, but he said
he would do it, for my sole benefit, at Hong-Kong.
October 1st.—I had little sleep last night, for the ship was rolling a
good deal. I climbed on deck at sunrise. Sergy tucked me up in my chair
and I soon fell into a deep slumber. When I woke the rolling had ceased
and the sea was quite calm. I was so comfortable I didn’t want to get out
of my rug, and took my breakfast on deck.
October 2nd.—This morning, whilst we took our coffee, a weird procession
of gentlemen, in extremely impromptu costume, with towels over their
arms, passed by on their way to the bath-cabin. After luncheon the
captain led us over the inner mysteries of the ship. We went down the
deck ladder into the engine-room, where he, who would taste purgatory,
had but to find employment there. The stokers are all niggers, who
support better that stifling atmosphere than their white brethren.
After dinner we sat on deck, seeking in vain for a breath of fresh air.
It was fire that we inhaled. We are now in the straits of Formosa and
have reached the tropics.
After tea we had music in the salon. I sat down at the piano and played
four hands with Mr. Shaniavski. Our fellow passengers, crowding round,
applauded, and begged us to play on. Kontski turned over the leaves and
approved of our performance. In recompense he improvised, on the spot, a
song which he dedicated to me, and entitled “Mes Adieux.”