CANTON
From afar appeared the numerous pagodas of Canton, with their domes
adorned with little gold bells. Our boat nosed her way into the crowded
river, traversed by a perpetual scurry of launches, and we were at once
surrounded by a flotilla of numerous sampans ornamented with golden
devices. We were deafened by the screams and the dreadful noise. Canton
is a veritable town of amphibians. There is not room enough on land for
the two million inhabitants, who spend all their lives on the water in
floating huts. There are families who have never stepped on shore. Their
floating houses have platforms on each end, on which their babes pass a
part of their lives until the age of three, tied with a long cord to a
post. Canoes propelled by strong Chinese women, clad in broad trousers,
come alongside our ship; some of them carry a baby tied on their backs.
The women pile up the luggage and transport passengers on shore, together
with long cases of opium, which compose the principal cargo of the
_Fat-Chan_.
On landing we crossed the French Bridge leading to the Isle of Shamin,
and entered the cantonment and the European sections. The Isle of
Shamin is a community which consists of a gathering of buildings and
gardens forming a kind of European village. Concessions of ground-plots
are granted by the Chinese government to England, France, America
and Germany. On these diverse pieces of ground the Consulates of the
different countries are established; over each Consulate the national
flag is hoisted. The Chinese bear no good-will towards Europeans, whom
they have surnamed “Devils of the Western countries.” One of these days
they threw stones at a party of travellers who were crossing the bridge.
Chinese sentinels are placed on both ends of the bridge to keep order,
but these warriors of the Celestial Empire inspire but little confidence
and I felt safe only when we stepped into Shamin. It is only the Chinese
inhabitants of Shamin who are allowed to cross the French and English
bridges leading to the small island; for the natives living in Canton it
is _terra prohibita_.
We put up at the Victoria Hotel. Our room is large and desolate-looking;
it has but little furniture: two uncomfortable little iron bedsteads,
shrouded with mosquito-nets, a table and three chairs. The floor is
stone; on the white-washed walls hangs the portrait of Queen Victoria
sitting side by side with our Empress-Dowager, holding on her knee
her first-born, Nicolas II. From our window I perceive a corner of the
quay of Canton, from where resounded an appalling noise of tom-toms and
cymbals.
The French Consul came to pay his respects to my husband in the
afternoon, accompanied by Mr. Emelianoff, a young compatriot of ours
who teaches Russian in one of the schools in Canton. We kept them for
dinner. The cooking is abominable. Among other unappetising dishes we had
an underdone beefsteak surrounded with slices of oranges. But the milk
products are good; a Dutch settler has brought out of Australia a score
of beautiful cows, and has established an excellent dairy-farm at Shamin.
The town of Canton is surrounded by a thick wall. Every street in the
city has a gate which is locked at eight every night, the heavy iron
doors are bolted and no one is allowed to enter or go out of Canton. All
the junks and sampans stand in a line along the bank and are strictly
forbidden to come alongside Shamin at night. At nine o’clock in the
evening the guards on the bridges beat the retreat, making a terrible
noise with drums, maddening tom-toms and pipes several yards long.
Thousands of crackers are let off. To crown all the retreat ends by loud
gun-shots.
We went to bed in the dark, our sole light consisted of a piece of
candle stuck on a tea-saucer. We passed a troublesome, sleepless night,
trembling with cold. The dampness mounted from the river by an aperture
broken through the ceiling for ventilation. The deafening sound of gongs
seemed to rend the air at equal intervals, making noise enough to wake
the “Sleeping Beauty.” Every quarter of an hour the sound of tom-toms
resounded, and immediately after, the sentinels sent up their watch-cry
accompanied by the beating of drums and the ringing of bells. The Chinese
make all this noise through superstition to chase away the evil spirit!
January 10th.—In spite of our fireless, chilly room, we did not escape
the bites of vicious mosquitos and were half devoured by swarms of
wretched insects.
At six o’clock in the morning a boy naked down to the waist, his long
plait rolled round his head, brought us our coffee. It is Sunday to-day.
Being too late for Mass, both in the Cathedral and the Protestant church,
we went for a walk round Shamin, which took us altogether half an hour.
Before the “English Settlement,” joining the “French Concession,” there
spreads a large tennis-ground.
After tiffin six palanquins were at the door to carry us through the town
of Canton. Our guide advised us to dress quietly so as not to attract
too much attention. Our palanquin-carriers, thin, emaciated creatures,
started at a small trot. As soon as we had crossed the French Bridge
and entered Canton, I began to feel seriously uneasy. We were carried
through the labyrinth of narrow, muddy evil-smelling streets crowded with
humanity; pigs and rooks are their only cleaners. Our carriers advanced
with difficulty through the crowd, elbowing the people. There is no
foot-way, and at the corners our porters shouted “ho-ho, hi-ha!” to make
the people avoid the path, scattering them to right and left. The streets
are full of shops, banners, Chinese lanterns, bizarre sign-boards hang
down to the ground. On the portico of the houses we saw hideous faced
idols, guardians of the thresholds, to whom the Chinese burn red candles
with painted flowers and little incense “Joss-sticks” (Joss is a god)
to propitiate the demons. A Chinese “Punch and Judy” were acting on a
little stage in a street. We saw legions of lepers at each corner, and
were accosted by sordid beings exposing terrible sores. I had a creepy
sensation as we passed groups of evil-looking natives eyeing us with
evident malevolent curiosity, which threatened to become hostile. Angry
murmurs rose behind us. We heard strong epithets used on our behalf;
they shouted after us “Fan-Quai,” which meant “Dogs of the West,” and
made menacing gestures. It was old women and children who were the most
aggressive; a little boy pulled a tongue a yard long to me. I felt
suddenly a hand grasping my arm, and a brutal-looking young Chinaman gave
me such a stare that I felt quite uncomfortable. I endeavoured to look
unconcerned, but did not know what to do all the same, whether to smile
or to maintain a stern countenance. I heaved a sigh of relief when our
carriers stopped before the “Pagoda of the five hundred geniuses,” which
contains life-sized statues made of gilded wood, one more grotesque than
the other, placed on granite pedestals, an idol with six eyes and ears
down to the neck, poured down from four pairs of hands his blessings;
another with three faces held a sort of mandoline in his hands. A statue
with European features and clothes, wearing a Rembrandt hat, personified
“Marco Polo” the renowned Venetian explorer of the sixteenth century, the
first European who penetrated into China. I wonder how that personage had
come to attain the rank of a god. We were carried afterwards to the Roman
Catholic cathedral, where Christian natives, in Chinese dress, knelt near
the altar listening to the litanies sung in Chinese language by a priest
wearing the Chinese costume. We went slowly round the cathedral and
admired the beautiful stained glass-windows, in which figures of saints
stood, and paintings representing diverse subjects from the Bible adapted
to Chinese life. The figure of Christ blessing a Chinese woman with
children clinging to her skirts, especially attracted our attention.
I was delighted when we were brought back to Shamin.