laying down on the breakfast table “The North China Daily News” which
he had been intently perusing, “I have here a list of houses advertised
for rent. Suppose we start out and look at some of them.” “Just the
thing,” assented Mrs. Dunlap eagerly. “You call the ricshas and I’ll
be ready in a minute.” “No, we will go in a carriage. It will take us
around more quickly and cost no more for the time we are out. Just
think,” he added, “of our being able to hire for a whole day a nice
victoria and pony, with driver and footman, for less than a dollar and
a half! Life in Shanghai certainly has its advantages.” “Don’t let the
driver forget his French license,” called Mrs. Dunlap to her husband as
he was hurrying away to make arrangements for the carriage. “That’s so.
We may want to go into the French Concession.” “Yes, and we’d rather
not be held up as the Blanks were.” Then both laughed merrily at the
memory of the experience of their friends who went for a joy ride in
celebration of their wedding anniversary, but they had hardly left
the International Settlement before a policeman stopped the “mafoo,”
and because he had no French license made him drive with the pair to
a police station to get one and pay the fine of a dollar, rather an
inglorious episode. The Dunlaps were gone all day and returned to their
stopping place at night well-nigh exhausted. But the next morning they
were out early again, this time to hunt up the office of a real estate
company and tell the agent they had decided to take one of his houses.
“Good, I will put your name right down on the list of applicants.
There are only eleven ahead of you.” “Eleven ahead of us!” exclaimed
Mrs. Dunlap in astonishment and dismay. “Why, we supposed the houses
that were advertised in the paper had not been rented.” “And so they
haven’t,” responded the agent cheerfully. “These are only possible
tenants. You stand a good chance of getting the place. Last week I
rented a house to the fifteenth party in a list of applicants. All the
others, for one reason and another, had dropped their names.”
The couple finally secured a house to their liking, quite new and
somewhat out from the centre of the city. The rent being agreed on, the
agent added, “You will pay six per cent taxes.” “How is that?” queried
Mr. Dunlap. “I am not buying the property.” “No, but here in Shanghai
the tenant pays the tax on the house, the landlord on the land. You
are getting off cheap. If your house were within the limits of the
‘Settlement’ you’d have to pay twelve per cent in taxes.” “Oh, then
we are not in the Settlement? Somebody told me the road in front of
the house was a Municipal Council road.” “That’s right. It is. A year
or so ago the Council, after hard effort, obtained permission to lay
that road through Chinese territory. It is a good road, too, isn’t it?
A first class macadamized thoroughfare.” “That is most interesting,”
agreed the Dunlaps. “But you say the land on which the house itself
stands belongs to the Chinese?” “Yes, they refused to sell it, so the
best the company could do was to rent it in perpetuity.” Mr. Dunlap
turned to his wife with a smile, “Well, if we get into trouble, we can
go out and sit in the road.” “Ha, ha, not a bad idea,” chuckled the
agent. “But you will be well protected. The Settlement police patrol
the road and Chinese police the territory around it. The Chinese have
no desire to see foreigners’ houses looted, for this gets them into
trouble.”
As soon as the Dunlaps began moving into their new domicile, they found
themselves greatly inconvenienced by the lack of closets, shelves,
hooks, and drawers. The house in fact was a mere shell, with roof and
walls and little else. However, there was running water, hot and cold,
and this is a luxury rarely found outside of Shanghai. Indeed in the
older parts of the Settlement hot water for baths is still bought at
nearby shops and brought to the home in big wooden buckets suspended
from carrying poles on the backs of coolies. Though the wires were laid
for electric lights, there were no fixtures. This was an oversight
on the part of the contractor that must be rectified at once, so Mr.
Dunlap sought another interview with the agent. “We shall be glad to
have the fixtures put in as soon as possible,” he urged, “as we are
depending for light on two or three small kerosene lamps.” “But we
don’t furnish such things.” “What?” “I mean they don’t go with the
house.” “So I must buy them?” “Assuredly.” “Well, well, whoever heard
of such a thing? But how about the stationary wash-basin for the
bathroom, and the draining board for the kitchen, and the--,” “If you
have them you get them yourself.” “You see it is like this,” continued
the agent goodnaturedly, “Shanghai is very cosmopolitan, and all sorts
of people settle here. Some tenants, when vacating a house, have been
known to steal the locks off the doors, the chandeliers from the
ceiling, and occasionally a stationary bathtub is cut loose and carried
away in the dead of the night. Oh no, you wouldn’t do it,” smiling at
Mr. Dunlap’s incredulous stare, “but such things happen oftener than
you would think.” It was plain then to the Dunlaps that they must
begin to furnish their house from the bottom up, or perhaps, to speak
more accurately, from the top down. Therefore, their first business
was to buy lumber, hire carpenters, and set them to work making pantry
shelves, and supplying a few other immediate necessities. Soon the
little back court resounded with the noise of hammer and saw.
It was somewhat exasperating to the head of the house, who longed to
expedite matters, to have the workmen stroll in about nine o’clock
in the morning, or possibly not come at all, leave promptly at five,
and spend anywhere from one to two hours and more in the enjoyment of
the noon siesta. But scolding was of little avail. Shanghai workmen,
particularly since the revolution of 1911 have assumed an easy,
independent air all their own and must be borne with as patiently as
may be.
The next matter to which the family gave their attention was the
buying of furniture. Friends advised them to get it at auction. As the
population of Shanghai is a constantly shifting one, auction sales are
a common incident of the city’s life. Homes are being broken up every
day and parties moving out, perhaps after only a few months’ residence.
The easiest, and really the most profitable method of disposing of
household effects, which often are practically new, is by auction.
Auction sales are very popular with all classes of society and usually
draw an eager crowd, but the Dunlaps picked up only a few things in
this way, for they found too much time was consumed in the process.
Then they were referred to Peking Road. Now Peking Road at its eastern
end, where it approaches the Bund, is a very high-toned, aristocratic
street, but away toward the west its character changes, and instead of
substantial brick office and apartment buildings, the road is lined on
both sides with Chinese junk shops. Yet according to the dictionary
definition of “junk,” that is not exactly the right word to apply to
them either, for far more than mere junk is exposed to the gaze of the
curious beholder in the wide open shop fronts, in the dark places at
the rear, and in the dusty, musty, low-ceilinged rooms above approached
by a ladder-like stairway. “Old Curiosity Shop” might appropriately be
written over each one. Most of the goods have been bought up at auction
and bear the marks of age in a greater or less degree, though some
are new, but it is not the commonplace new things that attract the eye
of the average foreigner, who is apt to exclaim at first glance, “What
a lot of old trash!” Worming his way in gingerly fashion among the
piled up closely-stacked stuff, the reward comes once and again in the
discovery of a rare piece of old mahogany or teakwood, or a quaint hit
of China or glass, which may be bought at a ridiculously low price. Of
course, if the “find” is an article of furniture, some risk is run in
carrying it home, and the very fastidious may eschew it altogether, but
a good airing and repeated cleansing with disinfectants and soap and
hot water, and if necessary, scraping and repolishing, generally render
it perfectly harmless.
However, a foreign house can not be furnished throughout from the shops
on Peking Road, so after investing in a few small articles like coal
buckets and shovels and tongs, Mr. and Mrs. Dunlap finally and firmly
resolved to waste no more valuable time hunting for bargains, but to
have all their furniture made to order. This sounds very luxurious and
a bit extravagant. On the contrary it was the most economical thing
that they could do, for they did not order from one of the high-priced
English department stores on Nanking Road, but from a Chinese shop
on a side street with an entrance and show windows that might have
been passed many times without attracting the least notice. The place
however had been highly recommended and the work in the end proved
quite satisfactory. Mark the words “in the end,” for they are spoken
advisedly, since the grand consummation did not occur till more than
a year from the time the first order was given. Inside, the shop was
found to be much more of an establishment than appeared from the
street. It carried a considerable stock of ready-made furniture, but
it was from the pictures in the firm’s imported books that the Dunlaps
chose their models, then selected their wood, and finally, after
considerable haranguing, came to an agreement on prices. Subsequently
calls without number were made at the shop by Mr. and Mrs. Dunlap in
a vain endeavour to hurry up the work. Sometimes they came upon the
elderly head of the firm and his clerks eating their forenoon meal at
a table near the centre of the showroom, for according to the usual
custom, the clerks were boarded on the premises. But the entrance of a
customer in no wise embarrassed them and he was always waited on with
the politest attention. One by one the pieces ordered were brought to
the house on a hand truck or wheelbarrow, some of the lighter articles
being suspended from a carrying pole borne by coolies. After remaining
a day or two, back they went, with few exceptions! Either the hat-rack
was too short, or the clothes-press shelves were too long, or the
bureau drawers wouldn’t open, or the locks didn’t fit. Always something
was “_ch’a pu to_,” just a little wrong, a favorite expression in
China which is used to excuse a multitude of faults. One much-doctored
upholstered chair was carried to and fro so many times it had finally
to be partially re-covered. But the dining table fared the worst. Once
it fell off the cart in transit and was broken. Because the wood was
not well seasoned, it kept splitting across the top and teetering
disconcertingly on uneven legs. Four tables were made in succession
before a satisfactory one was produced.
While the patience of the Dunlaps was sorely taxed during this period
of waiting, they could not help being deeply impressed with the
unfailing good nature and courtesy of the firm, always regretful, ever
ready for another trial, though the money loss was their own.
Some of their work, too, was really a pronounced success, as in the
case of the sectional bookcases which they patterned after one loaned
them by Mr. Dunlap. When the two were set up side by side in the
library it was next to impossible to tell them apart.
The absolute confidence of the Chinese in the honour of foreigners was
often remarked on in the family. Not for five months after work began
and until several hundred dollars’ worth of goods had been delivered
was any money asked for or expected. A dishonest person might easily
have slipped out of town and left furniture and debt behind him.
One noon, during the period of house-settling, when Mr. Dunlap returned
from his office, he was surprised to see a bevy of men at work sodding
the lawn, a matter he had not yet had time to consider. He was still
more astonished when he learned that this was being done for him by the
company of whom he rented his house. There was nothing personal about
it. All the company’s property was being treated in the same way. But
sod, it seems, could not easily be carried off, while lighting fixtures
might!
The Dunlaps did not find it necessary to go to the florist’s in search
of plants to beautify the grounds, for street vendors brought them
to their door. From the very morning they moved in these men fairly
haunted the place. They carried the plants in round, slightly convex
baskets, suspended by ropes from a bamboo pole slung across one
shoulder. Every time Mrs. Dunlap appeared in sight there they were, an
eager, smiling group of them, holding out their flowers and begging
her to buy in their best _pidgin_ English. Mrs. Dunlap always shook
her head saying, “By and by. Not now. I am too busy.” But one bright
day, when the house-wife was unusually occupied with work indoors,
an enterprising fellow actually took it upon himself to border the
entire garden, and it was a good large one, with handsome plants of
many varieties, and ended by placing on the veranda four mammoth
potted palms. The effect was charming. Of course Mrs. Dunlap might
have ordered the plants taken out of the ground, but what woman would?
Instead she gladly paid a little less than the price asked, which was
about six dollars. Afterward a neighbour told her that had she happened
to have any second-hand clothing to offer the man, he would willingly
have taken it in place of money. “Each year I replenish my garden with
flowers in that way,” concluded the friend.
The day the Dunlaps ate their first meal in their new home was a very
happy one, but before that time two important matters had been attended
to by Mr. Dunlap. These were putting in a first-class filter, and
covering the floors of the store-room and pantry with zinc which was
allowed to turn up around the walls for a foot and a half in order
to guard against the encroachments of ubiquitous Shanghai rats. The
Berkefeld filter is generally used in Shanghai and is supposed to
preclude the necessity of boiling the drinking water. But as every one
knows, the “candle” must be carefully washed in boiling water once a
week, and as Mrs. Dunlap soon found she could not trust a servant to do
this, who might or might not have the water really boiling, or handle
the candle without breaking, she attended to it herself.
Among her first callers were the “runners” from several Chinese grocery
stores. The nearest secured her patronage. Each morning his man came to
receive the day’s orders, and before noon the groceries were delivered
in a neat box-tricycle. In addition a daily visit to the market was
made by the cook, for the grocery stores in Shanghai carry neither
meat nor fresh vegetables. “Just think, we no longer have to depend
on tinned butter and milk!” exclaimed Mrs. Dunlap delightedly to her
husband soon after their removal to the coast city, as her eyes turned
with satisfaction to the neat pat of fresh Australian butter on her
pretty Welsh butter dish. The dairies, the best being the European, are
carefully inspected by the Municipal Health Department and deliver milk
in sealed bottles to insure not being tampered with on the way from
the dairy to their destination. Notwithstanding this, never a drop of
milk or cream was used on the Dunlaps’ table that had not been scalded.
Neither was lettuce indulged in, not even that grown in private
gardens, nor any other uncooked vegetable. In view of the ravages of
Oriental dysentery and kindred diseases, the family agreed that it
was wise to obey the injunctions of foreign doctors and take no risks.
Fresh fruit from which the skin could be removed was eaten freely
in season, but was dipped in boiling water, or underwent a thorough
washing in filtered water before it was set on the table. Strawberries
were subjected to a special cleansing process under Mrs. Dunlap’s
personal supervision. Placed in a colander, boiling water was poured
over them three times, and lastly a solution of permanganate. Later on
in her experience Mrs. Dunlap learned of a better and easier way of
disinfecting the fruit, and that was to plunge it for an instant into
boiling syrup, by which the flavor of the berry was retained and its
appearance but little altered. Even after every reasonable precaution
had been taken in the matter of food, the Dunlaps were made aware that
through the carelessness of servants, and in other ways, they were
constantly running serious risks. However, they concluded to do the
best they could and then not worry.
Another early caller to put in an appearance was the public laundryman.
Shanghai houses are not built with the idea of doing washing at
home, except perhaps a few of the small pieces. So it is sent out,
and as to just what kind of places, one may possibly be happier
not to inquire into too diligently. The public laundries in the
International Settlement, it is true, are subject to inspection by
the Health Department, but questionable habits are liable to continue
notwithstanding. Take, for instance, a Chinese washerman’s manner
of sprinkling clothes, which is to fill his mouth with water, then
squirt it out through his closed teeth. It is bad enough when the spray
falls on hosiery and underwear, but handkerchiefs, napkins--well, Mrs.
Dunlap soon found that it was not well under such circumstances to give
reins to her imagination. She certainly had no fault to find with the
pricelist, paying barely one cent and a half apiece for everything,
from a face cloth to the most elaborate white dress. As a rule the
clothes were exquisitely laundered, even though the method employed did
cause rapid deterioration.
Although the process of setting their house in order was a most
tedious one, at last Mr. and Mrs. Dunlap had progressed far enough to
be comfortable and feel that they could turn their attention to other
and more important matters. At first they were a little disturbed by
having to look at the back courts of their neighbours’ houses across
the street instead of onto their well-trimmed lawns, for it is usual
in Shanghai to build so that all houses may face the south, from which
the breeze comes. Then too, Mrs. Dunlap’s soul was somewhat tried by
the lines of washing, innumerable as the sands on the sea-shore, hung
out to dry on the vacant lots stretching away to the south. But it
was at least a more agreeable sight than the coffins lying scattered
about on the ground just beyond her east windows, left there, perhaps
by perfect strangers to the Chinese landowner, to await a convenient
time of burial. A little farther away, Mr. Dunlap passed every morning,
in going to his office, a lot which evidently was a favorite spot for
depositing the dead. Fresh coffins appeared each morning, most of them
tiny ones. Often the baby was not given a coffin at all, but tied in
a grass mat which was thrown carelessly on the ground. The bodies are
supposed to be gathered up and carted away daily. One seems gradually
to get hardened in China to things grown too familiar. The Dunlaps used
often to marvel that their surroundings, depressing though they were,
did not affect them more.
Mrs. Dunlap’s daily routine began each morning after breakfast by
“taking accounts” with the cook. The cook in China does the marketing,
and he also gets his commission or “squeeze” as it is popularly called.
That is, he buys a pound and half of meat and brings in a bill for
two, or he charges his mistress a few coppers more a pound than he has
paid. This squeezing business is perfectly understood by both parties,
and providing it does not exceed certain bounds, nothing is said about
it. Market prices are quoted each morning in one of the Shanghai
dailies, and by consulting this and making an occasional visit herself
to market, Mrs. Dunlap kept informed as to about what she ought to
pay. Whenever the cook began to take undue advantage of her, she did
not accuse him of it directly, but a conversation something like the
following would ensue: “Ta Shih-fu (Great Assistant), you are paying
too much for meat.” “Yes, so I told the butcher, but he won’t take
less.” “Then go somewhere else.” Or, “One hundred and four eggs are too
many to use in two days for our small family.” “It certainly is a great
many but I had to put eighteen into a cake.” “You must use fewer.” “I
will try.” Now Mrs. Dunlap knew, and the cook knew that she knew, that
he had paid a moderate price for the meat and was charging her for
eggs which he never bought or had disposed of himself. But through this
indirect method of dealing with him, by no means original with her,
she gained her end and saved the face of the Great Assistant. Had he
suffered “loss of face” probably nothing would have been said by him
at the time, but later he might have appeared before his mistress to
announce sorrowfully that his uncle or great-aunt had just died and
he must leave at once. Perhaps next day he would be found comfortably
installed in a neighbouring kitchen. Occasionally a young housekeeper,
new to China, undertakes to do her own marketing and even to dispense
with a cook altogether. But after a few days, or at the most a few
weeks, she usually gives up the trial she made so hopefully, realizing
that as conditions are in China it is next to impossible for a foreign
woman to do her own housework.
Following the taking of accounts came giving out “stores” for the day.
Housekeepers differ. Some keep nothing under lock and key. Others deal
out what is needed in minutest measure, a cupful of rice, a half cup of
sugar. Mrs. Dunlap found it expedient to follow a middle course, not
putting temptation in the cook’s way by giving him free access to the
stores, but at the same time showing that he was trusted by letting him
have a fairly liberal quantity at a time. If the supplies disappeared
too rapidly she dealt with him after the ordinary indirect fashion.
Frequently she and her neighbors helped one another by “comparing
notes.” “How long does a fifty pound bag of flour last you?” “How many
pounds of sugar do you average in a week?”
Mrs. Dunlap’s cook was an artist in his way. When the spirit moved
him he sent his cakes, pies, and puddings to the table ornamented in
a style that would do justice to a Fifth Avenue caterer. One day,
however, he gave the family a surprise. A cake was served for dinner
that had a most peculiar flavor. “I told the cook to use lemon filling,
but there is no taste of lemon about this,” declared Mrs. Dunlap,
critically sampling a bit of the cake. “No, and there _is_ a strong
taste of onion,” said her husband. “Oh, impossible! But yes, there
really is!” The cook was called in. “What did you make the filling of?”
questioned Mrs. Dunlap. “Onions,” was the prompt reply. “Onions! Why, I
told you to use lemon.” “No, the lady said onions, and I am an obedient
cook. I always do just as the lady bids.” Then suddenly it dawned on
the crest-fallen mistress that she _had_ ordered onion, the Chinese
word for that pungent vegetable and for lemon being somewhat alike. But
this was not quite as bad as the experiment of a friend’s cook, who,
with no malice whatever, but the best of intentions, flavored the soup
with kerosene oil, and on another occasion poured a liberal quantity
of hair oil into the pudding. As to cleanliness or rather the lack of
that admirable virtue in the moral make-up of many otherwise desirable
chefs, without question the least said the better. But when a cook is
discovered washing his waistcoat in the dishpan, or polishing the stove
with a fine tea-towel, if a summary dismissal ensues, can any one blame
the sorely-tried house-wife? Many a merry half hour the ladies of the
neighbourhood spend over their teacups sharing experiences both amusing
and tragic. The longer Mrs. Dunlap lived in China the more she realized
that while the “servant problem” in the Orient is not solved, as many
in Western lands seem to think it is, yet the excellencies of Chinese
servants are many and pronounced. These are more noticeably away from
the coast cities, and were more general before the recent revolution,
and even before 1900, but the sterling good qualities of the better
servants are still worthy of the highest praise. Where will more
devoted, faithful service be found? Were the children sick at night,
or was Mr. Dunlap leaving the city by a midnight boat or an early
train, the servants were on duty, eager and willing without a word of
complaint.
One time the Dunlaps arrived home from a journey at midnight to find a
hot supper awaiting them. It had been ready since seven o’clock when
the family was expected, but by some occult process known only to the
cook, the food had been kept from burning or drying up during the
intervening hours. The men were blinking and heavy-eyed, but absolutely
good-natured.