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Village Life in China
_TENTH THOUSAND Chinese Characteristics_
_BY Rev. ARTHUR H. SMITH, D.D._
For Twenty-six Years a Missionary of the American Board in China.
_With Sixteen Illustrations from Photographs, an index and a Glossary._
_800, decorated cloth, $1.25_
From The Independent.
There is no glamour thrown over the race, neither is there failure to
recognize those qualities that have made them so backward in civilization,
so hostile to foreigners, so repugnant to many in our land. Everyone
interested in China or the Chinese should read the book.
From The New York Times.
If we are not to accept the studies that missionaries have made of the
Chinese, whose are we to accept? We do not mean the accounts of the
seminary young man who, fresh from his studies, lives in China for a
six-month, and then writes of his experiences, but of the men like the
author of this volume, who has had a residence of twenty-two years in
China.
Mr. Smith's volume is a highly entertaining one, showing uncommon
shrewdness, with keen analysis of character.
From The Critic.
There is all the difference between an intaglio in onyx and a pencil
scrawl on paper to be discovered between Mr. Smith's book and the printed
prattle of the average globe-trotter. Our author's work has been done, as
it were, with a chisel and an emery wheel. He goes deeply beneath the
surface.
From The Standard.
It is much the most interesting book upon China which we have ever read,
and it is specially valuable as a practical commentary upon the national
and social institutions of the Chinese, the natural effect of their long
isolation, and the benumbing effect of such a religion as has in great
part made them what they are.
From The Living Church.
That this is the most valuable account of the Chinese ever written is, we
believe, generally acknowledged.
From The Missionary Review of the World.
Every chapter is a thesaurus of startling antithesis, humorous
portraitures, acute observation and marvelous sagacity.... The book is
most delightful reading, and will be found most fascinating. It is a
mirror of Chinese characteristics, as its name indicates. Within its pages
we have found a volume of aphorisms and sage sayings seldom embraced in
such a book.--_Rev. A. T. Pierson, D.D._
_FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 63 Washington Street
Toronto: 154 Yonge Street_
[Illustration: CHINESE VILLAGERS AT HOME]
Village Life in China
A STUDY IN SOCIOLOGY
BY ARTHUR H. SMITH, D.D.
AUTHOR OF
"Chinese Characteristics"
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO
Fleming H. Revell Company
Publishers of Evangelical Literature
Copyright, 1899
by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
Foreword
These chapters are written from the standpoint of one who, by an extended
experience in China, has come to feel a profound respect for the numerous
admirable qualities of the Chinese, and to entertain for many of them a
high personal esteem. An unexampled past lies behind this great race, and
before it there may lie a wonderful future. Ere that can be realized,
however, there are many disabilities which must be removed. The longer one
is acquainted with China, the more deeply is this necessity felt.
Commerce, diplomacy, extension of political relations, and the growing
contact with Occidental civilization have, all combined, proved totally
inadequate to accomplish any such reformation as China needs.
The Chinese village is the empire in small, and when that has been
surveyed, we shall be in a better condition to suggest a remedy for
whatever needs amendment. It cannot be too often reiterated that the
variety in unity in China is such, that affirmations should always be
qualified with the implied limitation that they are true somewhere,
although few of them may hold good everywhere. On the other hand, the
unity in variety is such that a really typical Chinese fact, although of
restricted occurrence, may not on that account be the less valuable.
China was never so much in the world's thought as to-day, nor is there any
apparent likelihood that the position of this empire will be less
conspicuous at the opening of the twentieth century. Whatever helps to a
better understanding of the Chinese people, is an aid to a comprehension
of the Chinese problem. To that end this volume is intended as a humble
contribution.
Acknowledgment.
The author desires to acknowledge his indebtedness to the Rev. Harlan P.
Beach for his invaluable criticisms and the kindly services rendered in
the proof-reading and piloting of this new voyager through the press.
For the use of original photographs from which engravings have been made,
and are here published for the first time, the author and the publishers
desire to acknowledge their obligations to Mr. Robert E. Speer, Mr.
William Henry Grant, Albert Peck, M.D., Rev. W. C. Longden, and Miss J. G.
Evans.
Contents
PART I.--THE VILLAGE, ITS INSTITUTIONS, USAGES, AND PUBLIC CHARACTERS
CHAPTER PAGE
GLOSSARY 11
I. THE CHINESE VILLAGE 15
II. CONSTRUCTION OF VILLAGES 20
III. VILLAGE NOMENCLATURE 30
IV. COUNTRY ROADS 35
V. THE VILLAGE FERRY 39
VI. VILLAGE WELLS 44
VII. THE VILLAGE SHOP 49
VIII. THE VILLAGE THEATRE 54
IX. VILLAGE SCHOOLS AND TRAVELLING SCHOLARS 70
X. CHINESE HIGHER EDUCATION--THE VILLAGE HIGH SCHOOL--
EXAMINATIONS--RECENT EDUCATIONAL EDICTS 111
XI. VILLAGE TEMPLES AND RELIGIOUS SOCIETIES 136
XII. COA-PERATION IN RELIGIOUS OBSERVANCES 141
XIII. COA-PERATION IN MARKETS AND FAIRS 146
XIV. COA-PERATIVE LOAN SOCIETIES 152
XV. SOCIETIES FOR WATCHING THE CROPS 161
XVI. VILLAGE AND CITY RAIN-MAKING 169
XVII. THE VILLAGE HUNT 174
XVIII. VILLAGE WEDDINGS AND FUNERALS 179
XIX. NEW YEAR IN CHINESE VILLAGES 196
XX. THE VILLAGE BULLY 211
XXI. VILLAGE HEADMEN 226
PART II.--VILLAGE FAMILY LIFE
XXII. VILLAGE BOYS AND MEN 237
XXIII. CHINESE COUNTRY GIRLS AND WOMEN 258
XXIV. MONOTONY AND VACUITY OF VILLAGE LIFE 312
XXV. UNSTABLE EQUILIBRIUM OF THE CHINESE FAMILY 317
XXVI. INSTABILITY FROM FAMILY DISUNITY 324
PART III--REGENERATION OF THE CHINESE VILLAGE
XXVII. WHAT CAN CHRISTIANITY DO FOR CHINA? 341
INDEX 353
List of Illustrations
Chinese Villagers at Home _Frontispiece._
SOUTHERN VILLAGE SCENE } _Facing Page_ 16
A DETAIL--THE VILLAGE WELL }
SAWYERS PREPARING LUMBER } " " 24
ITINERANT BLACKSMITH'S EMPLOYED BY VILLAGERS }
THE VILLAGE COBBLER } " " 35
VILLAGE BROOM-MAKER }
WAITING FOR THE BOAT } " " 40
CROSSING THE FERRY }
STRINGS OF CHINESE CASH } " " 51
PREPARING THE STRINGS }
THRESHING } " " 77
AN AFTERNOON SIESTA }
THE WORLD'S OLDEST SACRED MOUNTAIN, T'AI SHAN } " " 141
SCENERY ALONG THE RIVER LIN }
GOING TO MARKET } " " 148
CHINESE MARKET SCENE }
CROP-WATCHER'S LODGE } " " 162
REAPING MILLET }
A BRIDAL PAIR } " " 188
TEMPORARY FUNERAL PAVILION }
ENTRANCE TO A YAMEN } " " 218
CHINESE COURT OF JUSTICE }
CHINESE PUNCH AND JUDY } " " 244
THE VILLAGE STORY-TELLER }
WOMEN PREPARING FOOD } " " 262
ON THE WAY TO THE FEAST }
ONE OF CHINA'S PARASITES--A BEGGAR } " " 310
ONE OF HER SOURCES OF STRENGTH--A CARPENTER }
LITTLE OLD PEOPLE } " " 342
GOING TO A CHRISTIAN SCHOOL }
Glossary
BOY, a term used by foreigners in China to denote the head-servant,
irrespective of his age.
CASH, Chinese copper coin with a square hole for stringing. The value of a
single cash may be taken as one-thousandth of a Mexican dollar. The cash
vary greatly in size. A "string" theoretically consists of a thousand
cash, but in many regions has but five hundred. The latter variety is at
present equal to one-third of a gold dollar.
CATTY, a Chinese pound, equal by treaty to one and one-third pounds
avoirdupois.
CHIN-SHIH, "Entered Scholar." The third literary degree; Doctor in
Literature.
CHOU, a Sub-prefecture, sometimes with Districts under it, and often
without them.
CHAoe-JASN, "Selected man." The second full literary degree; a Master of
Arts.
COMPOUND, an enclosure or yard, usually containing a number of buildings
belonging to a single family or establishment.
FASNG-SHUI, literally "wind and water." A complicated system of geomantic
superstition, by which the good luck of sites and buildings is determined.
FU, a Prefecture, governed by a Prefect, with several Districts under it.
HAN-LIN, "Forest of Pencils." The last literary degree, entitling to
office.
HSIEN, a District or Country, governed by the District Magistrate.
HSIU-TS'AI, "Flourishing Talent." The lowest of the several literary
degrees; a Bachelor of Arts.
K'ANG, a raised platform of adobe or of bricks, used as a bed and heated
by means of flues.
K'O-T'OU or KOTOW, the act of prostration and striking the head on the
ground in homage or worship.
LI, a Chinese measure of length, somewhat more than three of which equal
an English mile.
SQUEEZE, a forced contribution exacted by those through whose hands the
money of others passes.
TAL, a weight of money equivalent to a sixteenth of a Chinese pound; an
ounce.
TAO-T'AI, an officer of the third rank who is intendant of a circuit.
YA-MASN, the office and residence of a Chinese official.
PART I
The Village, Its Institutions, Usages and Public Characters
I
THE CHINESE VILLAGE
There are in India alone over half a million villages. In all Asia, not
improbably, there may be four times that number. By far the larger part of
the most numerous people on the globe live in villages. The traveller in
the Chinese Empire may start from some seaport, as Tientsin, and journey
for several months together in the same general direction, before reaching
its frontiers on the other side. In the course of such a tour, he will be
impressed as only one who has ocular evidence can be impressed with the
inconceivably great number of Chinese altogether outside of the great
centres of urban population. Contrary to the current notions of
Westerners, the number of great cities is not, relatively to the whole
population, anything like so large in China as in Western lands. Many of
the district cities, capitals of divisions analogous to what we call
counties, are merely large villages with a wall and with government
bureaus called yamAȘns. It is known that in India three-fourths of the
population are rural. In China there is perhaps no reason for thinking the
proportion to be less.
On such a journey as we have supposed, the traveller unacquainted with the
Chinese, finds himself perpetually inquiring of himself: What are these
incomputable millions of human beings thinking about? What is the quality
of the life which they live? What is its content and its scope?
Questions like these cannot be answered intelligently without much
explanation. The conditions and environment of Chinese life are so totally
unlike those to which we are accustomed, that it is unsafe to take
anything for granted. Amid certain fundamental unities the life of the
Chinese is full of bewildering and inexplicable variety. No matter how
long one may have lived in China, there is always just as much as ever
that he never before heard of, but which every one is supposed to have
known by intuition. The oldest resident is a student like the rest.
This state of things is the inevitable result of the antiquity of Chinese
civilization, as well as of the enormous scale upon which it has operated
to produce its effects. It is a sagacious remark of Mr. A. R. Colquhoun[1]
that "the product resulting from duration multiplied by numbers must be
immense, and if to this we add a third factor, isolation, we have no right
to be surprised either at the complex character of Chinese civilization,
or at its peculiarly conservative form." For this reason a connected and
orderly account of the phenomena of Chinese life we believe to be a
hopeless impossibility. It would require the combined information of all
the residents of China to make it complete, to coA¶rdinate it would be the
work of several life-times, and the resultant volumes would fill the
Bodleian library. The only practicable way to extend our knowledge of so
oceanic a subject, is to examine in more or less detail such phenomena as
happen to have come within our restricted horizon. No two persons will
have the same horizon, and no horizon will belt a sphere.
A good way to see what is happening in a building would be to take its
roof off, could that be done without disturbing its inmates. If we wish to
comprehend the Chinese, we must take the roof from their homes, in
order to learn what is going on within. This no foreigner can do. But he
can imitate the Chinese who apply a wet finger to a paper window, so that
when the digit is withdrawn there remains a tiny hole, through which an
observant eye may see at least something. The heterogeneous, somewhat
disconnected, very unequally elaborated chapters which comprise this book,
have this in common, that they are all studies of the phenomena seen at a
peep-hole into the actual life of the Chinese people. Any one who knows
enough about the subject to be entitled to have an opinion, cannot help
perceiving how imperfect and inadequate they are. Yet they represent,
nevertheless, realities which have a human interest of their own.
[Illustration: SOUTHERN VILLAGE SCENE.]
[Illustration: A DETAIL--THE VILLAGE WELL.]
The traveller in China, constantly surrounded by countless towns and
hamlets, naturally thirsts to know in a general way the population of the
region which he is traversing. Should he venture, however, to ask any one
the number of people in a city, or the district which it governs, he would
get no other information than that there are "not a few," or "who knows?"
Almost any intelligent person could tell approximately how many villages
there are in his own county, but as some of them are large and some small,
and as Chinese like other Orientals care absolutely nothing for statistics
and have the crudest notion of what we mean by an average, one is none the
wiser for their information.
It appears to be well settled that no real dependence can be placed upon
the Chinese official returns, yet that they are the only basis upon which
rational estimates can be based, and therefore have a certain value. So
far as we are aware, efforts to come at the real population per square
mile, have generally proceeded from such extensive units as provinces, or
at least prefectures, the foundation and superstructure being alike a mere
pagoda of guesses.
Some years ago an effort was made in a certain district to make a more
exact computation of the population of a very limited area, as a sort of
unit of measure. For this purpose a circle was taken, the radius of which
was twenty _li_, the foreign residence being at the centre. A list was
drawn up of every village having received famine relief in the year 1878,
so that it was not difficult to make a proximate guess at the average
number of families. The villages were 150 in number, and the average size
was taken as eighty families, which, reckoning five persons to the family,
gave a total of 60,000 persons. Allowing six miles to be the equivalent of
twenty _li_, the population of the square mile would be 531, about the
same as the average of the kingdom of Belgium (the most densely populated
country in Europe), which had in 1890 an average of only 534 to the square
mile.
At a distance of a few miles beyond this circle, there is a tract called
the "Thirteen Villages," because that is the number within a distance of
five _li_! This shows that the particular region in which this estimate
was made, happens to be an unfavourable one for the purpose, as a
considerable part of it is waste, owing to an old bed of the Yellow River
which has devastated a broad band of land, on which are no villages. There
is also a water-course leading from the Grand Canal to the sea, and a long
depression much below the general average, thinly occupied by villages,
because it is liable to serious inundation.
For these reasons it seemed desirable to make a new count in a better
spot, and for this purpose a district was chosen, situated about ninety
_li_ east of the sub-prefecture of Lin Ch'ing, to which it belongs. The
area taken was only half the size of the former, and instead of merely
estimating the average population of the villages, the actual number of
families in each was taken, so far as this number is known to the natives.
The man who prepared the village map of the area is a native of the
central village, and a person of excellent sense. He put the population in
every case somewhat below the popular estimate so as to be certainly
within bounds. The number of persons to a "family" was still taken at
five, though, as he pointed out, this is a totally inadequate allowance.
Many "families" live and have all things in common, and are therefore
counted as one, although as in the case of this particular individual, the
"family" may consist of some twenty persons. To the traveller in this
region, the villages appear to be both large and thickly clustered, and
the enumeration shows this to be the case. Within a radius of ten _li_
(three miles) there are sixty-four villages, the smallest having thirty
families and the largest more than 1,000, while the average is 188
families. The total number of families is 12,040, and the total number of
persons at five to the family, is 60,200, or more than double the estimate
for the region with twice the diameter. This gives a population of 2,129
to the square mile.
So far as appearances go, there are thousands of square miles in southern
and central Chih-li, western and southwestern Shan-tung, and northern
Ho-nan, where the villages are as thick as in this one tract, the contents
of which we are thus able proximately to compute. But for the plain of
North China as a whole, it is probable that it would be found more
reasonable to estimate 300 persons to the square mile for the more
sparsely settled districts, and from 1,000 to 1,500 for the more thickly
settled regions. In any case a vivid impression is thus gained of the
enormous number of human beings crowded into these fertile and historic
plains, and also of the almost insuperable difficulties in the way of an
exact knowledge of the facts of the true "census."
II
CONSTRUCTION OF VILLAGES
It is nearly 500 years since the great raid of the nephew of Hung Wu,
founder of the Ming Dynasty, from the southern capital of China, to what
is now known as Peking, then called the state of Yen. The celebrated
raider is popularly believed to have destroyed the lives of all those whom
he met, and to have reduced to an uninhabited desert the whole region from
the Yang-tzA- River to Peking. This is described as "Yen Wang's sweeping
the North." After this ambitious youth had dispossessed his nephew, who
was the rightful heir to the throne, he took the title of Yung Lo, which
became a famous name in Chinese history. To repair the ravages which he
had made, compulsory emigration was established from southern Shan-hsi and
from eastern Shan-tung. Tradition reports that vast masses of people were
collected in the city of Hung-tung Hsien in southern Shan-hsi, and thence
distributed over the uncultivated wastes made by war. Certain it is that
throughout great regions of the plain of northern China, the inhabitants
have no other knowledge of their origin than that they came from that
city.
It is a curious phenomenon that so practical a people as the Chinese, and
one having so instinctive a sense of the points of the compass that they
speak of a pain in "the east side" of the stomach, are indifferent to
regularity of form in their towns. Every Chinese city seems to lie four
square, but perhaps it is not too much to say that no Chinese city really
does so lie. On the contrary a city wall is always found to have certain
deliberate curves and irregularities which are designed for geomantic
purposes. In other words they bring good luck, or they keep off bad luck,
and are representations of the mysterious science of _fAȘng-shui_ or
geomancy. It is for this reason that city gates must either not be
opposite one another, or if they are so, some obstruction must intervene
to prevent evil spirits from making a clean sweep of everything.
It is customary in Western lands to speak of "laying out" a city or a
town. As applied to a Chinese village, such an expression would be most
inappropriate, for it would imply that there has been some trace of design
in the arrangement of the parts, whereas the reverse is the truth. A
Chinese village, like Topsy, "just growed," how, or why, no one knows or
cares. At some remote and generally unascertainable time in the dim past
some families arrived from somewhere else, camped down, made themselves a
"local habitation," (their name they probably brought with them), and that
was the village. It has a street, and perhaps a network of them, but no
two are parallel, except by accident, and no one of them is straight. The
street is the path which has been found by long experience to be a
necessary factor in promoting communication between the parts of the
village and the outside world. It is not only liable to take sudden and
inexplicable turns, but it varies in width at different points. Sometimes
in a village a quarter of a mile long, there may not be a single crossroad
enabling a vehicle to get from the front street to the back one, simply
because the town grew up in that way, and no one either could or would
remedy it, even if any one desired it otherwise. At right angles to the
main street or streets, run narrow alleys, upon which open the yards or
courts in which the houses are situated. Even the buildings which happen
to stand contiguous to the main street offer nothing to the gaze but an
expanse of dead wall. If any doorway opens on the highway, it is protected
from the evil influences which might else result, by a screen wall,
preventing any observation of what goes on within. A village is thus a
city in miniature, having all the evils of over-crowding, though it may be
situated in the midst of a wide and comparatively uninhabited plain.
Whether land is dear or cheap, a village always has the same crowded
appearance, and there is in either case the same indifference to the
requirements of future growth.
The mountains furnish an abundance of stone, from which dwellings situated
in such districts are built--dark, damp, and unwholesome at all seasons of
the year, but especially so in the time of heavy rains. Even more
unpleasant are the cave dwellings found in the loamy soil of loess
regions, lighted only from the front, and quite free from any form of
ventilation, a luxury for which no provision is made in the construction
of a Chinese dwelling.
By far the most common material of which the Chinese build their houses is
that which happens to be nearest at hand. Bricks are everywhere made in
great quantities, almost always of the same colour as the clothes of the
people, a bluish gray. This tint is secured by sealing up the brick-kiln
perfectly tight, when the burning of the bricks is finished, and pouring
upon the concave top several hundred buckets of water, which, filtering
through the soil of which the top is composed, is instantly converted into
steam when it reaches the bricks, and alters their hue. The scarcity of
fuel, and an unwillingness to employ it where it seems like a waste leads
to the almost universal practice of burning the bricks too little to make
them valuable as a building material. Instead of becoming hard like stones
as do foreign bricks, and coated with a thick glazing, a large percentage
of Chinese bricks break merely by being handled, and when examined, they
are found to be like well-made bread, full of air-holes. Each of these
openings becomes a tube by which the bibulous bricks suck up moisture from
below, to the great detriment of the building of which they generally form
merely the foundations, or perhaps, the facings.
The vast majority of country dwellings are made simply of the soil,
moulded into adobe bricks, dried till they cease to shrink. The largest
of these bricks are two or three inches thick, and a foot wide, and
perhaps twenty inches in length, weighing even when thoroughly dried more
than forty pounds. The cost of making those which are only dried in a
mould is not more than a cash a piece; those which are stamped while in
the mould with a heavy stone rammer, are worth three or four times as
much. If experts are employed to do this work, the outlay is greater as
the owner of the earth not only provides a man to carry the necessary
water, but he must furnish tea and tobacco for the workmen.
The foundations of adobe houses, like those of all others, must be of
brick, and at the height of a foot or two above the ground will have a
layer of reeds or some other substance, designed to prevent the dampness
from rising into the walls, which crumble in such a case like candy houses
in a rain. There is so much soda in the soil of all parts of the Great
Plain of northern China, that unless extreme care is taken the best built
structures will, in a very few years, show signs of decay.
The roof is meant to be supported by posts, no matter of what material the
house is built, and this material is regarded as only the filling between
them, but in the cheaper houses, the posts are often omitted to save
expense. As a result, in a rainy year thousands of houses are literally
soaked down whenever the moisture has sufficiently weakened the
foundations. In this way many persons are killed and many more injured. In
some districts one sees roofs made with the frame resembling that of a
foreign house, but the ordinary form is with king and queen posts. In
either case the timbers running lengthwise of the building support small
purlines upon which rest thin bricks, or more frequently reeds, mats, or
sorghum stalks, over which is spread the earth which forms the greater
part of all roofs. Their enormous weight when well soaked make them highly
dangerous after the timbers have become old and rotten. Where the roofs
are flat, they serve as depositories for the crops, and for fuel.
If the village is situated in a low spot, the precaution is taken to throw
up a mound of earth on which to build. But whatever the nature of the
country, the removal of so much earth leaves a series of gigantic pits
around every village, which catch the drainage of the surrounding region
and the possession of which is disputed by ducks, geese, pigs and in
summer by small children clad only in the skin garments furnished by
nature.
The abundant moisture is an inducement to the growth of luxuriant groves
of trees, which, seen at a distance, produce a charming effect. But on a
nearer approach it is seen that the fine old trees are employed
exclusively in shading the mud-holes, while the houses of the village are
exposed to the fiercest rays of the summer sun. Trees are indeed to be met
with in the village street, but they are not designed to shade a
courtyard, which is almost invariably utterly destitute of trees of any
sort. Even grapevines which would seem a natural and beautiful relief from
the hideous bareness of the prevalent earth colour, are, in some regions
at least, wholly tabooed. And why? Because, forsooth, the branches of the
grape point down, while those of other trees point up, hence it would be
"unlucky" to have grapevines, though not at all "unlucky" to roast all
through the broiling summer for the lack of their grateful shade.
A man whose grandfather had been rich, and who was distinguished from his
neighbours by owning a two-story dwelling, informed the writer that he
could remember that his grandmother, who lived in the rear court, was
constantly fretting at the lofty buildings in front, and at the
magnificent elms which shaded the compound and left no place to dry
clothes! In course of time the family was reduced to poverty, the
two-story building was demolished, and the trees felled, so that the
present generation, like other families, swelters in a narrow courtyard,
with an unlimited opportunity (very little used) to dry their clothes.
Luxuries which are denied to dwelling-houses, are cheerfully accorded
to the gods, who have no clothes to dry, and a very small temple may have
in front of it a grove of very old trees.
[Illustration: SAWYERS PREPARING LUMBER.]
[Illustration: ITINERANT BLACKSMITHS EMPLOYED BY VILLAGERS.]
The architecture of the Chinese has been compendiously and perhaps not
inaccurately described as consisting essentially of two sticks placed
upright, with a third laid across them at the top. The shape of some
Chinese roofs, however they may vary among themselves, suggests the tent
as the prime model; though, as Dr. Williams and others have remarked,
there is no proof of any connection between the Chinese roof and the tent.
Owing to the national reluctance to erect lofty buildings, almost all
Chinese cities present an appearance of monotonous uniformity, greatly in
contrast with the views of large cities to be had in other lands.
If Chinese cities are thus uninviting in their aspect, the traveller must
not expect to find anything in the country village to gratify his A|sthetic
sense. There is no such word as "A|sthetic" in Chinese, and, if there were,
it is not one in which villagers would take any interest. The houses are
generally built on the north end of the space reserved as a courtyard, so
as to face the south, and if additional structures are needed they are
placed at right angles to the main one, facing east and west. If the
premises are large, the front wall of the yard is formed by another house,
similar to the one in the rear, and like it having side buildings. However
numerous or however wealthy the family, this is the normal type of its
dwelling. In cities this type is greatly modified by the exigencies of the
contracted space at disposal, but in the country it rules supreme.
The numerative of Chinese houses is a word which denotes division,
signifying not a room, but rather such a part of a dwelling as can
conveniently be covered by timbers of one length. As these timbers are
seldom very large or very long, one division of a house will not often
exceed ten or twelve feet in length, by a little less in width from front
to back. An ordinary house will comprise three of these divisions, though
there may be but one partition, forming one double and one single room.
There is no ceiling, and the roof, which is usually not lofty, is in full
view. Most doors are made with two leaves, projections above and below,
like pins, serving as the hinges. There is a movable doorsill, out of
which a small hole is often cut to admit of entrance and exit for the dogs
and cats. Such doors cannot be tightly closed, for the rude workmanship
and the unequal shrinkage of the wood always render it easy to see through
the many cracks.
Almost all parts of the eighteen provinces are very hot in summer, but it
is only in some regions that a back door will be found opening opposite
the front one. The wooden grating, which does duty as a window, is built
into the wall, for security against thieves, and is often covered, even in
the heat of summer, with oiled paper. Doors do not open directly from
dwelling-houses to the street, and if there are any windows on the street
side of the house, they are very small and very high.
Just inside the door is built the adobe support for the cooking-boiler,
the latter shaped like a saucer and made very thin in order to economize
fuel to the utmost. In all districts where provision is to be made for
heating the room, it is done by conducting the smoke from this primitive
range through a complicated set of flues, under the divan called a _k'ang_
which serves as a bed, and which is merely an arrangement of adobe bricks.
If the houses are thatched with straw the opening for smoke must be near
the ground, as a precaution against fire.
On the end of the _k'ang_ are piled the bed-quilts of the household and
whatever trunks or boxes they may be able to boast, for this is the only
part of the dwelling which is not likely to be damp. As the fire is so
near to the outer door where drafts are strong, as the flues are very
likely to get out of order, and as there are no chimneys worthy of the
name, it is inevitable that the smoke should be distributed throughout the
building with the greatest impartiality, often forming a coating of
creosote an inch or more in thickness.
Above the cooking-range is fastened the image of the kitchen-god,
popularly supposed to be a deification of Chang Kung, a worthy who lived
in the eighth century of our era, and was able to live in perfect peace,
although nine generations simultaneously inhabited the same yard. Even his
hundred dogs were so polite as to wait for another, if any one of them was
late at a meal.
The reigning emperor of the Tang Dynasty sent for Chang Kung, to inquire
the secret of such wonderful harmony, and calling for a pen, he is said to
have written the character denoting "Forbearance" a great number of times.
According to tradition the picture of this patriarch was placed in every
dwelling as a stimulus to the imitation of his example, a purpose for
which it unfortunately proves quite inert.
That the dwellings of the Chinese are cold in winter, hot in summer, and
smoky all the year round is inevitable. Even in the coldest weather there
is no escape from the bitter cold, except as it may be got by curling upon
the _k'ang_. For this reason Chinese women often speak of the _k'ang_ as
like an "own mother." A room in which there is none is considered almost
uninhabitable. But from an Occidental point of view they are models of
discomfort. The heat is but slowly diffused, and during a long night one
may be alternately drenched with perspiration, and then chilled to the
bone as the heat diminishes. The adobe bricks of which the _k'ang_ is
composed crumble if an uneven pressure is made upon them, so that one
often finds the _k'angs_ in an inn full of pitfalls. They are always the
lodging places of a multitude of tiny monsters to which the Chinese are
too much accustomed to complain. Even when the adobe bricks are broken up
in the spring to be pulverized as manure--on account of the creosote--the
animal life lodged in the walls is apparently sufficient to restock the
universe.
It is not surprising that the title-deeds to land are in course of years
destroyed or lost, for there is in a Chinese house no proper place in
which they may be kept. The only closets are made by leaving out a few
bricks from the wall. A small board, resting on two pegs often forms the
only book-shelf to be found in the apartments even of men of letters.
Doors are locked by passing the link of a chain over a staple in the
door-frame above; but Chinese padlocks can generally be picked with a
wire, a chop-stick, or even with a dry weed, and afford no real
protection. Thieves are always provided with an assortment of keys, and
often get in by lifting the doors off the pins which serve as hinges.
Nothing is easier than to dig through adobe walls. In some of the rich
villages of Shan-hsi house-walls are built quite six feet thick to
discourage such penetration.
The floor of all common dwellings is merely the earth, not smoothed but
beaten into fixed inequalities; this we are assured (in reply to a
question why smoothness is not cultivated) is much the best way, as by
this means every fluid spilled will run out of itself! In the corners of
the dwelling stand, lie, or hang, the numerous household articles for
which there is no other place. Jars of grain, agricultural implements,
clumsy looms for weaving cotton, spinning wheels, baskets of all sizes and
shapes, one or two benches, and possibly a chair, all seem to occupy such
space as is to be had, while from the sooty roof depend all manner of
articles, hung up so as to be out of the way--some of which when wanted
must be hooked down with a pole. The maxim "a place for everything, and
everything in its place" is inappropriate to a Chinese dwelling, where
there is very little place for anything.
The small yard is in as great confusion as the house, and for the same
reason. Dogs, cats, chickens and babies enjoy a very limited sphere of
action, and generally take to the street, which is but an extension of the
court. If the family owns animals, some place must be found for them in
the yard, though when not in use they spend their time anchored by a very
short rope, attached to pegs sunk deep in the ground, in front of the
owner's dwelling. Pigs are kept in a kind of well, with a brick wall to
prevent its caving in, and by climbing a very steep flight of brick
stairs they can ascend to a little kennel provided for them at the edge of
their pits--in many regions the only two-story domiciles to be found!
The Chinese village is always a miniature city, not only by reason of its
internal arrangements--or lack of it--but often also in the virtue of the
fact that it is surrounded by a wall.
Not many years ago several regiments stationed near the Yellow River, in
Shan-tung, mutinied, killed an officer and marched off to their homes. The
intelligence of this event spread throughout the province, and each region
feared to be visited by the soldiers who were sure to plunder and perhaps
to kill. So great was the panic that cities hundreds of miles from the
seat of the disturbance were packed with a multitude of farm-carts loaded
with villagers who had left their homes and abandoned their crops at the
beginning of the wheat harvest, trusting to find safety within city walls.
The losses sustained in consequence were immense.
Events like this may occur at any time, and the great T'ai P'ing Rebellion
of half a century ago, together with its resultant disorders, left an
ineffaceable impression of the insecurity of an unwalled village. Although
the walls are seldom more than fifteen or twenty feet in height, whenever
a year of bad harvests occurs, and bands of plunderers roam about, the use
of even such defences is made obvious. Slight as is their value against an
organized, well-directed attack, experience shows that they are often
sufficient to accomplish the object intended, by diverting the stream of
invaders to other villages where they meet with no resistance. The least
rumour of an uprising in any quarter is often sufficient to stimulate the
villagers to levy a tax upon the land in order to repair their earthen
ramparts, in which, not without good reason, they place much more
dependence than in the cautious and dilatory movements of the local
authorities who are generally in no condition to cope with an organized
and resolute force, especially with those rebels who have a real
grievance.
III
VILLAGE NOMENCLATURE
The Chinese is justly termed a poetical language. The titles of emperors,
the names of men, the signs of shops, all have some felicitous meaning. It
is therefore somewhat of a disappointment to discover that the names of
Chinese villages, unlike those of cities, are not as a rule either
poetical or significant. The drafts upon the language by the incessant
multiplication of hamlets are too great to be successfully met. Nearly all
Chinese surnames serve as the designation of villages, as in other lands
the names of families are attached to the settlements which they make.
Sometimes two or more surnames are linked together to denote the village,
as Chang-Wang Chuang, the village of the Chang and the Wang families. It
often happens that in the changes, wrought by time, of the families for
whom the place was named not a single representative remains. In such
cases the name may be retained or it may be altered, though all
recollection of the circumstances of the change may be lost.
The most conspicuous object in a Chinese village is generally a temple,
and this building often gives its name to the hamlet. Thus the wall
surrounding a temple is covered with red plaster, and the village is
dubbed Red Temple. In a few years the plaster falls off, but the name
sticks. Temples are frequently associated with the families which were
prominent in their construction, and the name of the village is very
likely to be derived from this source, as Wang Chia Miao, the Temple of
the Wang Family; the Hua Chia SsA-, the monastery of the Hua Family. If
there happen to be two temples of a similar appearance, the village may
get the title of Double Temple, and in general any peculiarity in
edifices of this sort is likely to be stereotyped in the village name.
The habit of using the names of families and temples to indicate the
villages is a fertile source of confusion through the indefinite
multiplication of the same name. There is no postal system in China
compelling each post office to have a designation which shall not be
confounded with others in the same province. Hence the more common names
are so exceedingly common that they lose all value as distinctive
designations. "Chang, Wang, Li, and Chao," are the four surnames which the
Chinese regard as the most prevalent, the first two of them far
out-distancing all their competitors. The number of places in a given
district bearing the same, or similar names, is past all ascertaining; as,
say eight or ten Wang Family villages, the Larger Wang Village, the
Smaller Wang Village, the Front Wang Village, the Rear Wang Village, the
Wang Village Under-the-bank, and so forth. Even with this complexity,
distinction would be a much easier matter if the same name were always
used, but anything which has a Wang about it is like to be called simply
Wang Village, and only on inquiry is it to be learned which of all these
Wangs is the one intended.
A similar ambiguity is introduced along the line of imperial highways,
where the hamlets at which food is sold, and where accommodations are
offered to travellers, are called "shops," taking their distinctive title
from the distance to the district city,--as Five Mile Shop, Ten Mile,
Fifteen, Twenty, Thirty, and Forty Mile Shop. Each district city may have
"shops" of this kind on each side of it, and while the one twenty miles
(or li) north is Twenty Li Shop, so is the one twenty li south, to the
great confusion of the traveller, who after all is not sure where he is.
In addition to this ambiguity, the Thirty Li Shop of one city is liable to
be confounded with the Thirty Li Shop of the next city. It is a common
circumstance to find an insignificant hamlet with a name comprising four
or five characters, the local pronunciation of which is generally
difficult to catch, as the words are spoken as one prolonged,
many-syllabled sound. This leads to abbreviations, the same long title
having perhaps two or three different modes of utterance, to the
bewilderment of strangers, and to the intense amusement of the rustic born
on the spot, who cannot conceive what there can be so hard to understand
about a name which is to him as familiar as his own.
Another source of confusion in the nomenclature of Chinese villages, is
the almost universal habit of varying one or more characters of a name
without any apparent reason. The alteration has no connection with
euphony, ease of pronunciation, or with any known cause whatever, but
seems to be due to an irresistible instinct for variety, and to an
antipathy to a too simple uniformity. Thus a village the proper title of
which is the Ancient Monastery of the Li Family, (Li Ku SsA-) is
generally called Li Kuang SsA-; a village known as that of Benevolence
and Virtue (JAȘn TAȘ Chuang), is ordinarily styled JAȘn Wang Chuang.
Analogous to this habit, is that of affixing two entirely distinct names
to the same little hamlet, neither name suggesting the other, and the
duplication merely serving to confound confusion. Thus a village which has
a name derived from a temple, like HsA1/4an Ti Miao (the temple to HsA1/4an Ti)
is also known as Chang Chuang (the village of the Chang Family), but as
there are many other villages of Chang families near by this, one will be
known by way of distinction, as the "Chang Family village which has a
temple to HsA1/4an Ti"! Many persons have occasion to write the names of
villages, who have but the scantiest knowledge of Chinese characters, and
they are as likely to indite a false character having the same sound as a
right one--nay, far more so--and thus it happens that there is a perpetual
uncertainty, never set at rest in any manner whatsoever, as to what the
real name of a place ought to be, for to all Chinese one name is as good
as another, and in such matters, as in many others, there appears to be no
intuition of right and wrong.
Chinese villages are only individual Chinese amplified, and, like
individuals, they are liable to be nicknamed; and, as often happens with
human beings, the nickname frequently supplants the original, of which no
trace may remain in memory. This helps to account for the singular
appellations of many villages. A market-town on the highway, the wells of
which afford only brackish water, was called "Bitter Water Shop," but as
this name was not pleasing to the ear, it was changed on the tax lists to
"Sweet Water Shop." If any one inquires how it is that the same fountain
can send forth at the same time waters both bitter and sweet, he is
answered with conclusive simplicity, "Sweet Water Shop is the same as
Bitter Water Shop!" A village situated on the edge of a river was named
after the two leading families, but when the river rose to a great height
this name sunk out of sight, and there emerged the title, "Look at the
Water;" but even this alteration not being sufficient to satisfy the
thirst for variety, the name is written and pronounced as if it meant,
"Look at the Grave!" A hamlet named for the Liu Family had in it a bully
who appeared in a lawsuit with a black eye, and hence was called the
Village of Liu with the Black Eye. In another instance a town had the name
of Dropped Tooth, merely because the local constable lost a central
incisor (Lao Ya ChAȘn); but in course of time this fact was forgotten, and
the name altered into "Market-town of the Crows," (Lao Kua ChAȘn) which it
still retains.
A village in which most of the families joined the Roman Catholics and
pulled down all their temples, gained from this circumstance the
soubriquet of "No Gods Village" (Wu ShAȘn Chuang). The following specimens
of singular village names are all taken from an area but a few miles
square, and could doubtless be paralleled in almost any other region. "The
Imperial Horse Yard" (YA1/4 Ma YA1/4an). This title is said to have been
inherited from the times of the founder of the Sung Dynasty. It is
generally corrupted into "Sesame Garden," (Chih Ma YA1/4an). "End of the
Cave," a village situated on a great plain, with vague traditions of an
underground passage. "Seeing the Horse"; "Horse Words Village," from a
tradition of a speaking animal; "Sun Family Bull Village"; "Female Dog
Village"; "Wang Family Great Melon Village"; "Separating from the King
Village"; "Basket Village of the Liu Village"; "Tiger-catching Village,"
and "Tiger-striking Fair"; "Duck's Nest of the Chou Family"; "Horse
Without a Hoof"; "Village of Chang of the Iron Mouth"; "Ts'ui Family Wild
Pheasant Village"; "Wang Family Dog's Tooth"; "Village of the Benevolent
and Loving Magistrate"; "Village of the Makers of Fine-tooth Combs,"
(Pi-tzA--chiang Chuang), which is now corrupted into "The Village Where
They Wear Pug-noses"!
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE COBBLER.]
[Illustration: VILLAGE BROOM-MAKER.]
IV
COUNTRY ROADS
The contracted quarters in which the Chinese live compel them to do most
of their work in the street. Even in those cities which are provided with
but the narrowest passages, these slender avenues are perpetually choked
by the presence of peripatetic vendors of every article that is sold, and
by peripatetic craftsmen, who have no other shop than the street. The
butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, and hundreds of other workmen
as well, have their representatives in perpetual motion, to the great
impediment of travel. The wider the street, the more the uses to which it
can be put, so that travel in the broad streets of Peking is often as
difficult as that in the narrow alleys of Canton. An "imperial highway" in
China is not one which is kept in order by the emperor, but rather one
which may have to be put in order for the emperor. All such highways might
rather be called low-ways; for, as they are never repaired, they soon
become incomparably worse than no road at all.
If this is true of the great tines of travel over the empire, we must not
expect to find the village road an illustration of any doctrine of
political economy. Each of them is simply a forced contribution on the
part of the owner of the land to the general welfare. It is so much soil
on which he is compelled to pay taxes, and from which he gets no more good
than any one else. Each land-owner will, therefore, throw the road on the
edge of his land, so that he may not be obliged to furnish more than half
the way. But as the pieces of land which he happens to own may be, and
generally are, of miscellaneous lengths, the road will wind around so as
to accommodate the prejudices of the owner in this particular, which
explains the fact that in travelling on village roads it is often
necessary to go a great distance to reach a place not far off.
An ordinary road is only wide enough for one vehicle, but as it is often
necessary for carts to pass one another, this can only be done by
trespassing on the crops. To prevent this the farmer digs deep ditches
along his land, resembling gas-mains. Each farmer struggles to protect his
own land, but when he drives his own cart, he too becomes a "trespasser";
thus a state of chronic and immitigable warfare is established, for which
there is absolutely no remedy. The Occidental plan of setting apart a
strip of land of uniform width, free from taxes and owned by the state,
the grade of which shall be definite, is utterly beyond the comprehension
of any Chinese. Where land is valuable and is all private property, road
repairs are out of the question. There is no earth to repair with, and
without repair, the roads soon reach a condition beyond the possibility of
any repairs. Constant travel compresses and hardens the soil, making it
lower than the adjacent fields; perpetual attrition grinds the earth into
banks, which by heavy gales are blown in the form of thick dust on the
fields.
In the rainy season the fields are drained into the road, which at such
times is constantly under water. A slight change of level allows the water
to escape into some still lower road, and thus a current is set up, which
becomes first a brook, and then a rushing torrent, constantly wearing out
its bed. This process repeated for decades and for centuries turns the
road into a canal, several feet below the level of the fields. It is a
proverb that a road 1,000 years old becomes a river, just as a
daughter-in-law of many years' standing gradually "summers into a
mother-in-law."
By the time the road has sunk to the level of a few feet below the
adjacent land, it is liable to be wholly useless as a thoroughfare. It is
a canal, but it can neither be navigated nor crossed. Intercourse between
contiguous villages lying along a common "highway," is often for weeks
together entirely interrupted. The water drained from the land often
carries with it large areas of valuable soil, leaving in its place a
yawning chasm. When the water subsides, the owner of the land sallies out
to see what has become of this section of his farm. It has been dissolved
in the canal, but if the owner cannot find that particular earth he can
find other earth just as good. Wherever the light soil called loam, or
"loess," is found, it splits with a vertical cleavage, leaving high banks
on each side of a rent in the earth. To repair these, the owner takes the
soil which he needs from a pit excavated by the side of the road, or more
probably from the road itself, which may thus in a single season be
lowered a foot or more in depth. All of it is his land, and why should he
not take it? If the public wish to use a road, and do not find this one
satisfactory, then let the public go somewhere else.
If a road becomes so bad as to necessitate its abandonment, a new one must
be opened, or some old one adapted to the altered circumstances. The
latter is almost sure to be the alternative; for who is willing to
surrender a part of his scanty farm, to accommodate so impersonal a being
as the public? In case of floods, either from heavy rains or a break in
some stream, the only feasible method is thought to be to sit still and
await the gradual retirement of the water. A raised road through the
inundated district, which could be used at all seasons, is a triple
impossibility. The persons whose land must be disturbed would not suffer
it, no one would lift a finger to do the work--except those who happened
to own land along the line of the route--and no one, no matter where he
lived, would furnish any of the materials which would be necessary to
render the road permanent.
An illustration of this state of things is found in a small village in
central Chih-li, where lives an elderly lady, in good circumstances, a
part of whose land is annually subject to flood from the drainage of the
surrounding region. The evil was so serious that it was frequently
impossible to haul the crops home on carts, but they had either to be
brought on the backs of men wading, or, if there were water enough,
toilfully dragged along on stalk rafts. To this comparatively enlightened
woman occurred the idea of having her men and teams dig trenches along the
roadside, raise the road to a level above possible flooding, and thus
remedy the trouble permanently. This she did wholly at her own expense,
the emerging road being a benefit to the whole country-side. The following
winter, during which the contagious influenza was world-prevalent, there
were several cases in the village terminating fatally. After five or six
persons had died, the villagers became excited to discover the latent
cause of the calamity, which was traced to the new highway. Had another
death occurred they would have assembled with spades and reduced it to its
previous level, thus raising a radical barrier against the grippe!
The great lines of Chinese travel might be made permanently passable,
instead of being, as now, interrupted several months of the year, if the
Governor of a Province chose to compel the several District Magistrates
along the line to see that these important arteries are kept free from
standing water, with ditches in good order at all seasons. But for the
village road there is absolutely no hope until such time as the Chinese
villager may come dimly to the apprehension that what is for the advantage
of one is for the advantage of all, and that wise expenditure is the
truest economy--an idea of which at present he has as little conception as
of the binomial theorem.
V
THE VILLAGE FERRY
In the northern part of China, although the streams are not so numerous as
at the south, they form more of an obstruction to travel, on account of
the much greater use made of animals and of wheeled vehicles. The Chinese
cart is a peculiarly northern affair, and appears to be of much the same
type as in ancient days. The ordinary passenger cart is dragged by one
animal in the cities, and by two in the country. The country cart,
employed for the hauling of produce and also for all domestic purposes by
the great bulk of the population, is a machine of untold weight. We once
put the wheel of one of these carts on a platform-scale and ascertained
that it weighed 177 pounds, and the axle fifty-seven pounds in addition,
giving a total of 411 pounds for this portion of the vehicle. The shafts
are stout as they have need to be, and when the cart upsets--a not
infrequent occurrence--they pin the shaft animal to the earth, effectually
preventing his running away. Mules, horses, cows, and donkeys, are all
hitched to these farm carts, each pulling by means of loose ropes anchored
to the axle. To make these beasts pull simultaneously is a task to which
no Occidental would ever aspire, nor would he succeed if he did aspire.
General Wolseley mentions in his volume describing the campaign in 1860,
when the army marched on Peking, that at Ho Hsi Wu all the Chinese carters
deserted, and the British troops were totally unable to do anything
whatever with the teams.
Under these conditions of travel, a Chinese ferry is one of the most
characteristic specimens of the national genius with which we are
acquainted. Ferries are numerous, and so are carts to be ferried. The
interesting thing is to watch the process, and it is a spectacle full of
delightful surprises.
At a low stage of water the ferry-boat is at the base of a sloping bank,
down which in a diagonal line runs the track, never wide enough for two
carts to pass each other. To get one of these large carts down this steep
and shelving incline requires considerable engineering skill, and here
accidents are not infrequent. When the edge of the ferry is reached the
whole team must be unhitched, and each animal got on the boat as best may
be. Some animals make no trouble and will give a mighty bound, landing
somewhere or everywhere to the imminent peril of any passengers that may
be already on board. None of the animals have any confidence in the
narrow, crooked, and irregular gang planks which alone are to be found.
The more crooked these planks the better, for a reason which the traveller
is not long in discovering. The object is by no means to get the cart and
animals on with the minimum of trouble, but with the maximum of
difficulty, for this is the way by which hordes of impecunious rascals get
such an exiguous living as they have. When an animal absolutely refuses to
budge--an occurrence at almost every crossing--its head is bandaged with
somebody's girdle, and then it is led around and around for a long time so
as to induce it to forget all about the ferryboat. At last it is led to
the edge and urged to jump, which it will by no means do. Then they twist
its tail--unless it happens to be a mule--put a stick behind it as a lever
and get six men at each end of the stick, while six more tug at a series
of ropes attached to the horns. After a struggle lasting in many cases
half an hour, often after prolonged and cruel beatings, the poor beasts
are all on board, where the more active of them employ their time in
prancing about among and over the human passengers, to their evident
danger.
Sometimes the animals become excited and break away, plunging over the
edge of the ferry, which has no guards of any kind, and in such cases it
is not uncommon for them to be floated away, or even lost. The writer
is cognizant of a case in which the driver was himself pulled into a swift
and swollen stream while struggling to restrain his mules, and was
drowned, a circumstance which probably caused his "fare"--a scholar on his
way to or from a summer examination--endless delay, as he would be
detained at the district yamAȘn for a witness.
[Illustration: WAITING FOR THE BOAT.]
[Illustration: CROSSING THE FERRY.]
But while we have been busy with the animals, we have neglected the cart,
which must be dragged upon the ferryboat by the strength of a small army
of men. There may be only one man or a man and a boy on a ferry, but to
pull a loaded cart over the rugged edges of the planks, up the steep
incline, requires perhaps ten or fifteen men. This is accomplished by the
process so familiar at Chinese funerals, the wild yelling of large bands
of men as they are directed by the leader.
Every individual who so much as lays a hand upon the cart must be paid,
and the only limit is the number who can cluster around it. As in all
other Chinese affairs there is no regular tariff of charges, but the rule
is that adopted by some Occidental railway managers to "put on all the
traffic will bear." Suppose for example that the passenger cart only pays
a hundred cash for its transport across the stream; this sum must be
divided into three parts, of which the ferry gets but one and the bands of
volunteer pullers and pushers on the two banks the other two-thirds. In
this way it often happens that all that one of these loafing labourers has
to show for his spasmodic toil may be four cash, or in extreme cases only
two, or even one.
On the farther bank the scene just described is reversed, but occupies a
much shorter time, as almost any animal is glad enough to escape from a
ferry. The exit of the carts and animals is impeded by the struggles of
those who want to get a passage the other way, and who cannot be content
to wait till the boat is unloaded. There is never any superintendent of
the boat, any more than of anything else in China, and all is left to
chance or fate. That people are not killed in the tumultuous crossings is
a constant wonder.
It is not unnatural for the Occidental whose head is always full of ideas
as to how things _ought_ to be done in the East, to devise a plan by which
all this wild welter should be reduced to order. He would, to begin with,
have a fixed tariff, and he would have a wide and gently sloping path to
the water's edge. He would have a broad and smooth gang-plank, over which
both animals and carts could pass with no delay and no inconvenience. He
would have a separate place for human passengers and for beasts, and in
general shorten the time, diminish the discomforts and occidentalize the
whole proceedings.
Now stop for a moment and reflect _how_ any one of these several "reforms"
is to be made a fact accomplished. The gently sloping banks will wash away
with the first rise of the river; who is to repair them? Not the boatman,
for "it is not the business of the corn-cutter to pull off the stockings
of his customers." If the ferry is an "official" one, that only means that
the local magistrate has a "squeeze" on the receipts, not that there are
any corresponding obligations toward facilitating travel. Who is to
provide those wide gang-planks over which the passage is to be so easy?
Not the boatman. Not the passenger, whose only wish is to get safely over
for that single time. Not the swarm of loafers whose interest it is not to
have any gang-planks at all, or as nearly as possible none.
And even if the roads were made, and the gang-planks all provided by some
benevolent despot, it would not be a week before the planks would be
missing, and all things going on as they have been since the foundation of
the Chinese world. The appointment of inspectors, police, etc., etc.,
would do no manner of good, unless it should be to their interest to
further the reform, which would obviously never be the case.
Imagine an Anglo-Indian official, whose knowledge of Oriental races and
traits is profound, in charge of the ferries for a single stretch, say of
the Grand Canal. What would he do?--what could he do, even if backed up by
a force theoretically irresistible? Nothing whatever to any lasting or
good purpose until the need of some alteration in their system, or rather
lack of system, forces itself upon the Chinese mind. How long in the
ordinary process of human evolution it would take to bring this about, it
is easy to conjecture. Think for an instant of the objections which would
be made on every hand to the innovations. Who are these fellows? What are
their motives? No Chinese can for a moment comprehend such a conception as
is embodied in the phrase _Pro bono publico_. He never heard of such a
thing, and what is more he never wants to hear of it.
We have wasted an undue amount of time in crossing a Chinese river, for it
is a typical instance of flagrant abuses which the Chinese themselves do
not mind, which would drive Occidentals to the verge of insanity--if not
over the brink--and which it seems easy, but is really impossible to
remedy. _Mutatis mutandis_, these things are a parable of the empire. The
reform must come. It must be done from within. But the impulse can come
only from without.
VI
VILLAGE WELLS
On the Great Plain of North China the wells are generally shallow, ranging
from ten to thirty feet in depth; one of fifty feet would be unusual,
though they are occasionally much deeper. The well is a very important
feature of the outfit of a Chinese village, though never the scene of
ablutions as in India. To save the labour of carrying water, all the
animals are led to the well to drink, and the resultant mud makes the
neighbourhood, especially in winter, very disagreeable. Rarely have they a
cover of any sort, and the opening being level with the surface of the
ground, it would seem inevitable that animals, children and blind persons,
should be constantly falling in,--as indeed, occasionally, but seldom
happens. Even the smallest bairns learn to have a wholesome fear of the
opening, and ages of use have accustomed all Chinese to view such dangers
with calm philosophy.
The business of sinking wells is an art by itself, and in regions where
they are commonly used for irrigation, the villagers acquire a great
reputation for expertness in the process. A village which desires a new
well sends an invitation to the experts, and a party of men, numbering
perhaps fifteen or twenty, responds. Though the work is fatiguing,
difficult, and often dangerous, no money payment is generally offered or
desired, but only a feast to all the workers, of the best food to be had.
If the well is to be anything more than a water-pit, it is dug as deep as
can be done without danger of caving in, and then the brick lining is let
down from above. The basis of this is a strong board frame of the exact
size of the opening, and wide enough to place the walling upon. A section
of the wall is built upon this base, and the whole is firmly bound to the
baseboard within and without by ropes or reed withes. The lining then
resembles a barrel without the heads, and when completed is so strong
that, though it be subjected to considerable and unequal strains, it will
neither give nor fall apart.
Several feet of the lining are lowered into the cavity, and as the digging
proceeds the lining sinks, and the upper wall is built upon it. If it is
desired to strike a permanent spring, this is accomplished by means of a
large bamboo tube to which an iron-pointed head is fixed. The tube is
driven down as far as it will go, the earth and sand being removed from
within, and when a good supply of water is reached the opening is bricked
up as usual. Such wells are comparatively rare, and proportionately
valuable.
Wherever the soil and water are favourable for market-gardens, the
country-side abounds in irrigation wells, often only six feet in width,
and provided with a double windlass or sweep. One may meet the gardeners
carrying home the ropes, buckets, and the windlass itself, none of which
can safely be left out over night. Village wells are often sunk on ground
which is conjointly owned by several families. Like everything else
Oriental, they furnish frequent occasions now, as in patriarchal times,
for bitter feuds. Whenever one is especially unpopular in his village, the
first threat is to cut off his water supply, though this is not often
done.
In some districts quicksands prevent the sinking of any permanent wells.
The villagers are obliged to be up all night in order to take their turn
at the scanty water supply, and fights are not infrequent. In a dry year
the suffering is serious. For evils of this sort tube-wells would seem to
provide a remedy, but thus far there has been great difficulty in getting
down to such a depth as to strike good water. The nature of the trouble
was aptly described by a coolie employed by a foreigner on a work of this
kind, who was asked why the pipe was not driven deeper. He replied that it
was, but "the deeper they went the more there wasn't any water" It would
appear that in the direction of a good water supply, Western knowledge
might be applied for the benefit of great numbers of Chinese and on a
large scale, or if not on a large scale, then on a small one.
As an illustration of the process by which this may be done, an experience
of many years ago in a Shan-tung village is worthy of mention. One of the
missionaries had the happiness of welcoming a second son to his household,
an event which seemed to the Chinese of such happy omen that they were
moved to unite in subscribing a fixed sum from each family in the village,
to purchase a silver neck ornament for the infant. As the suggestion was
not absolutely and peremptorily vetoed, the committee in charge went on
and ordered the silver chain and padlock, after which the delicate
question arose by what means this gift should be acknowledged. After
canvassing many plans, one was at length hit upon which appeared to
satisfy the requisite conditions, which were in brief that the thing
bestowed should be a distinct benefit to all the people, and one which
they could all appreciate. It was proposed to put a force-pump in a
village well not far from the mission premises, where much water was daily
drawn by a great many people with a great deal of labour. The force-pump
would make this toil mere child's play. The plan was so plainly
fore-ordained to success, that one of the missionaries--although not
having the felicity of two sons--was moved to promise also a stone
watering trough, which in Chinese phrase, would be a "Joy to Ten Thousand
Generations." The village committee listened gravely to these proposals
without manifesting that exhilaration which the obviously successful
nature of the innovation seemed to warrant, but promised to consider and
report later. When the next meeting of this committee with the
missionaries took place, the former expressed a wish to ask a few
questions. They pointed out that there were four or five wells in the
village. "Was it the intention of the Western foreign 'shepherds' to put
a 'water-sucker' into _each_ of these wells?" No, of course not; it was
meant for the one nearest the mission premises. To this it was replied
that the trinket for the shepherd's child had been purchased by uniform
contributions from each family in the village. Some of these families
lived on the front street and some on the back one, some at the east end
and some at the west end. "Would it be consistent with the ideal
impartiality of Christianity to put a 'water-sucker' where it could only
benefit a part of those for whom it was designed?"
After an impressive silence the committee remarked that there was a
further question which had occurred to them. This village, though better
off than most of those about, had some families which owned not a foot of
land. These landless persons had to pick up a living as they could. One
way was by carrying and selling water from house to house in buckets.
According to the account of the shepherds the new "water-sucker" would
render it so easy to get water that any one could do it, and the
occupation of drawers of water would be largely gone. It could not be the
intention of the benevolent shepherds to throw a class of workmen out of
work. What form of industry did the shepherds propose to furnish to the
landless class, to compensate them for the loss of their livelihood? At
this point the silence was even more impressive than before. After another
pause the village committee returned to their questions. They said that
Western inventions are very ingenious, but that Chinese villagers "attain
unto stupidity." As long as the Western shepherds were at hand to explain
and to direct the use of the "water-suckers," all would doubtless go well;
but they had noticed that Western inventions sometimes had a way of
becoming injured by the tooth of time, or by bad management. Suppose that
something of this sort took place with the "water-sucker," and suppose
that no shepherd was at hand to repair or replace it, what should then be
done after the villagers had come to depend upon it? This recalled the
fact that a force-pump had been tried several years before in Peking, in
the deep wells of that city, but the fine sand clogged the valves, and it
had to be pulled up again! In view of these various considerations, is it
surprising that the somewhat discouraged shepherds gave up the plan of
interfering with Oriental industries, or that the obligation to the
village was finally acknowledged by the payment of a sum of money which
they used ostensibly for the repair of the rampart around the village, but
which really went nobody knows where or to whom?
VII
THE VILLAGE SHOP
The Chinese have always divided themselves into the four classes of
scholars, farmers, workmen, and merchants. Considering their singular
penchant for trade, it is a surprise to find them putting traders at the
foot of the list.
If any one has an idea that the life of a Chinese dealer is an easy one,
he has a very inaccurate idea indeed, and the smallest investigation of
any specific case will be sufficient to disabuse him of it. Indeed there
are not many people in China whose life is an easy one, certainly not the
officials and the rich, who are at once the most envied and the most
misunderstood persons in the empire.
In Shan-tung, every village of any size has its little "tsa-huo-p'u," or
shop of miscellaneous goods. It is not at all like a huckster's shop at
home, for the goods kept are not intended to be disposed of at once. Many
of them may remain in stock for many years, but they will probably all be
worked off at last. Occidentals often suppose that the Chinese live on
"curry and rice." Very few people in Shan-tung ever tasted rice in their
lives, but there is generally a small quantity kept at the "tsa-huo-p'u"
in case there should be a call for use at feasts, or for the sick. There
is a good supply of red paper used for cards of invitation, and white
paper for funeral announcements, the need for which must be met promptly,
without waiting for a trip to a distant market-town. Besides this there is
a large stock of fire-crackers which are wanted whenever there is a
feast-day, a wedding or a funeral, and also paper money and other
materials for the idolatrous ceremonies which these occasions involve.
There are many other kinds of wares, for there is almost nothing for which
a demand may not be made; but the greatest profit is derived from the
articles last named.
Let not the reader, inexpert in Chinese affairs, suppose that the keeper
of the "tsa-huo-p'u" sits all day in a chair awaiting customers, or spends
the intervals between their infrequent arrivals in playing Chinese fox and
geese or chess. He does nothing of the kind. If his shop is a very small
one it is not tended at all, but simply open when occasion serves. If it
is a larger affair, it requires the time of more than one person, not to
tend it but to carry on the rural trade. For the larger part of the
business of the "tsa-huo-p'u" is not at home, but at five-day markets all
about. The proprietors of some shops take their wares to a fair every day
in the month, on the first and sixth to one place, on the second and
seventh to another, on the third and eighth to another, and on the fifth
and tenth to still another, by which time the circle is completed.
Going to one of these markets is no holiday work. It is necessary to rise
either at daylight or before, select the goods to be taken, pack them
carefully, make an accurate list of them, and then wheel the barrow to the
fair, sometimes over very bad roads in very bad weather. Arrived at the
market-town there are no stalls or booths for the dealers to occupy, but
each plants himself in a spot for which he has to pay a small ground-rent
to the owner, who is always on hand to collect this rent. All day long the
barrow must be tended assiduously, bickering with all sorts and conditions
of men and women, and when the people have begun to scatter, the articles
must be packed up again, and the barrow wheeled home.
Then comes the wearisome taking account of stock, in regard to which the
proprietor is exceedingly particular. In China nobody trusts anybody else,
for the excellent reason that he is aware that in similar circumstances it
might not be safe to trust himself. Hence the owner of the little shop, or
some one who represents him, looks carefully over the goods brought
home and compares them with the invoice made out in the morning. This
is a check upon the temptation to sell some things without giving an
account of them. The sales which have been made during the day are for
small sums only, and as all the cash has to be counted and strung on hemp
cords so as to make the full string of 1,000 cash (or 500 in some parts of
the country), this counting and stringing of the money takes a great deal
of time, and is very tiresome work when done by the quantity--though this
remark is applicable to most Chinese occupations viewed from an Occidental
point of view.
[Illustration: STRINGS OF CHINESE CASH.]
[Illustration: PREPARING THE STRINGS.]
The employee of the "tsa-huo-p'u" gets his meals when he can, which is
after he has finished everything which his employer wants him to do. It is
necessary for him to be a rare hand if he is to be so useful that he will
not be sent away if business is slack when the year closes, or if the
proprietor gets better service from some one else. The supply of labour of
every description, is so excessive, that it is very hard to get a place,
and harder still to keep it.
A country villager with whom the writer is well acquainted had too little
land to support his family, so he accepted the offer of a neighbour to
help him with the business which he had lately undertaken. This consisted
of sending four wheel-barrows daily to different villages to sell meat at
the markets. The men who did this had to rise long before daylight in
order to get the meat ready, that is to cut it from the bones, which are
disposed of at a separate rate. The weight of meat on each barrow had to
be entered and also the weight of the bones. On the return of the barrows
at night it was necessary to weigh what was left from the sales and
compare it with the returns of cash. This must be gone through with for
each barrow. The assistant to the meat-dealer had to keep in all _fourteen
different account books_. "But," we said to him, "after the barrows are
gone, and before they come back, there must be a little interval of
comparative peace in which you can do what you like?" "Alas, no," was the
reply, "it takes all of that time to balance up the fourteen entries of
the day before;" and judging from what one knows of Chinese bookkeeping
the time allowed would not be at all too much. Entries in Chinese
account-books are not set down in columns, so as to be conveniently added,
but strung along a page like stockings on a clothes-line. Each entry must
be treated by itself on the _suan-pan_ or reckoning-board, and there is no
check against errors. Our informant was so tired of his contract that he
seized the occasion of a funeral in a family with which he was connected,
and which he was in theory bound to attend, to break away and make a brief
call on the foreign friend who had generally been able to sympathize with
certain of his previous woes.
A year later the writer met him again, ascertained that he had abandoned
the intricate bookkeeping which selling meat appeared to involve, for
another kind of account-keeping in a well-to-do family, where there is a
good deal of land and much resulting activity. He was asked if he had any
time to read his book--of which he seemed to be fond--and he replied with
a decisive negative. Not if he got up early? No, indeed, he had to begin
work the minute he was dressed. Not if he went to bed a little later?
Certainly not; he had to go to bed late as it was--no time then. But he
might at least snatch a little leisure while he was eating. "Far from it,"
was the response, "the woman who is at the head of affairs takes that
opportunity to consult about the work."
In the case of firms having any considerable business, after the day's
work is all over, the clerks are liable to be required to spend the
evening in untying all the numerous strings of cash that have come in,
with a view to the discovery of any rare coins that might be sold at a
special price. All is fish that comes to a Chinese net, and sooner or
later there is very little that does not find its way there to the profit
of its owner. If the time should ever come, as come it may, when the
far-distant West comes into close and practical competition with the
patient Chinese for the right to exist, one or the other will be
behind-hand in the race and it is safe to venture the prediction that it
will _not_ be the Chinese!
The village shop keeps different kinds of weighing poles for buying and
for selling, works off all its uncurrent cash and bad bills on any one
upon whom it can impose, and generally drives a hard bargain with those
who deal with it, who retaliate in kind as opportunity offers. But as
elsewhere in this mixed world, much depends upon the individuality of its
head manager.
VIII
THE VILLAGE THEATRE
That the Chinese are extravagantly fond of theatrical representations, is
well known to all who live in China. The Chinese trace the origin of the
stage to the times of the Emperor Ming Huang, of the T'ang Dynasty (died
762) who, under an alias, is supposed to be worshipped as the god of
play-actors. It is a popular saying that if the players neglect to do
homage to this patron, they will altogether fail in their representations,
whatever these may be.
With the history of the Chinese stage, we have in this connection no
concern. According to the Chinese themselves, it has degenerated from its
ancient function of a censor in morals, and has become merely a device for
the amusement of the people. It is a remarkable circumstance that while
the Chinese as a people are extravagantly fond of theatrical exhibitions
of all sorts, the profession of play-actor is one of the few which debars
from the privileges of the literary examinations. The reason for this
anomaly is said to be the degradation of the theatre by pandering to
vitiated or even licentious tastes. To what extent the plays ordinarily
acted are of this sort, it is impossible for a foreigner to decide. The
truth seems to be that the general (theoretical) contempt for the stage
and its actors in China, is a product of the moral teachings of
Confucianism, which uncompromisingly condemn the perversion of the right
uses of dramatic representation. But while this (theoretical) view is the
one which is constantly met, it is like many other Confucian doctrines,
chiefly remarkable for the unanimity with which it is disregarded in
practice.
In what we have to say of Chinese theatres, we must disclaim any
knowledge of them at first hand, that is to say, by listening to acted
plays. There are several obstacles to the acquisition of such knowledge by
this method, even were other difficulties lacking. Most Chinese plays are
laid out upon so extravagant a scale, as regards time, that they may be
spread over many hours, or possibly several days. The most indefatigable
European could not listen to the entire performance of any one of them,
without becoming utterly exhausted. The dialect in which the actors speak
is so different from the spoken language, that it is hard to form an idea
of what they are saying. The tone adopted is that shrill falsetto, which
is not only fatiguing to an Occidental hearer, but almost of necessity
unintelligible.
When to these embarrassments are added the excruciating music, the
discomfort attending the dense crowds, and the universal confusion which
is an invariable concomitant of a Chinese theatre, it is not strange that
these representations have for Westerners very few attractions, after the
first glance has satisfied curiosity. This indifference on our part is
almost unintelligible to the Chinese. That a foreign traveller, who is
told of a theatre in full blast at the town at which he expects to spend
the night, should feel no joy, but should deliberately push on so as to
avoid spending the night at that place--this is to the Chinese profoundly
incomprehensible.
Except in a few large cities, the Chinese have no theatres in our sense of
the term, provided with seats and enclosed by walls and roof. The stage is
a very simple affair, and is entirely open to inspection. Sometimes it is
built like a temple with an open front. But by far the larger part of the
rural representations of theatrical companies take place on a temporary
scaffolding which is put up for the purpose the night before the plays
begin, and is taken down the moment the last play closes. The players
resemble their ancient Grecian prototypes in that they are a migratory
band, going wherever they are able to find an engagement.
The stage equipments, like the stage itself, are of the simplest order,
the spectator being required to supply by his imagination most of those
adjuncts in the way of scenery, which in our days, are carried to such
perfection in the theatres of the West. There is no division of a play
into separate acts or scenes, and what cannot be inferred from the dress,
or the pantomime of the actors, they must expressly tell to the audience,
as for example who they are, what they have been doing, and the like. The
orchestra is an indispensable accompaniment of a theatrical
representation, and not only bursts into every interval of the acting, but
also clangs with ferocity at such stirring scenes as a battle attack, or
to add energy to any ordinary event.
Apropos of this resemblance between the Greek stage and the Chinese, which
must have struck many observers, Mr. H. E. Krehbiel (in an article
published in the _Century_ for January, 1891) has declared that "the
Chinese drama is to-day in principle a lyric drama, as much so as the
Greek tragedy was. The moments of intense feeling are accentuated, not
merely by accompanying music, as in our melodrama, but by the actor
breaking out into song. The crudeness and impotency of the song in our
ears has nothing to do with the argument. It is a matter of heredity in
taste."
The village theatrical company owes its existence to some rich man, who
selects this as a form of investment. As all the available land in the
greater portion of China is wholly out of the market, it is not easy for
one who has more money than he can conveniently use to decide what to do
with it. If he should go into the theatrical business, it is not
necessarily with the expectation that the money will yield him a large
return, but in order to provide a popular amusement for a great number of
people, and at the same time receive a larger or smaller interest on the
amount invested.
The person whose capital is used in the costumes, which are the main part
of the outfit of a Chinese theatre, is called the "Master of the chest."
The whole outfit may be leased of him by an association of persons, who
pay a fixed sum for the use of the costumes, which must be kept in good
condition. In a first-class theatre, these costumes are very costly, and
include what are called "dragon robes," and "python robes," each with
double sets of inner garments, of fine quality, and handsomely
embroidered. Of these there are at least two suits, five suits of armour,
and numberless other articles of clothing, such as trousers, skirts,
boots, buskins, etc. Another "chest" contains the accoutrements of the
players, as swords, spears, and the like, made of gilded wood.
The value of all these various equipments, in a well-furnished theatre, is
said to be fully $5,000, and in those of the cheaper sorts, two-thirds or
half as much. Each of the three "chests" in which the stage accoutrements
are stored, is in charge of three men, who are responsible for the
security and the care of the contents of the cases.
The players are divided into classes which are called by different names,
the members of each class receiving pay according to the dignity of their
position. There are, for example, two individuals, one civil and one
military, who represent high-class historical characters, like Chiang
T'ai-kung, etc. These actors are called _lao-shAȘng_. Another class styled
_hu-shAȘng_, represent personages like WAȘn Wang, or Chao K'uang-yin. A
third class are assigned to characters like LA1/4 Pu, etc., and these players
are called _hsiao-shAȘng_. In addition to these are persons of less
importance, who represent ladies, officials' wives, young girls, or
others. After these come what may be called clowns, who are termed
"flowery-faced," (_hua-lien_) subdivided into first, second and third.
These represent the bad characters, such as Chou Wang, Ts'ao Ts'ao, and
the like, down to the lowest class who take the most despised and hateful
parts of all. In addition to these main characters, there is a
considerable force detailed as soldiers, servants, messengers, or to
personify boatmen, innkeepers, and the like. The rear is brought up with
a large staff of cooks, water-carriers, etc., whose duty it is to provide
for the material comfort of the players in their vagrant life.
Aside from the regular theatrical companies one frequently meets with
companies of amateurs who have inherited the art of giving performances on
a small scale called "a little theatre." They are young farmers who
delight in the change and excitement of stage life, and who after the
crops are harvested are open to engagements until the spring work begins.
There may be only fifteen or twenty in the band, but the terms are low,
and the food furnished them much better than they would have had at home,
and when the season is over they may be able to divide a snug little sum
to each performer.
The manager, or lessee of the theatrical equipment, is called a
_chang-pan_, and engages the players for a term of about ten months,
beginning early in the spring, and ending before the close of the year.
The whole company may number between fifty and a hundred men, and the best
actors may be engaged for sums ranging from the equivalent of a hundred
dollars for the most skilled, down to a few tens of dollars for the
inferior actors, their food in each case being furnished. It is thus easy
to see that the expense of maintaining a theatre is a vast drain upon the
resources of the lessee, and presupposes a constant succession of
profitable engagements, which is a presupposition not infrequently at a
great remove from the facts of experience.
The lessee of the theatre supplies himself with the material for the
development of actors, by taking children on contract, or apprenticeship,
for a fixed period (often three years) according to a written agreement.
At the end of their apprenticeship, these pupils are at liberty to engage
in any company which they may elect, for whatever they can get, but during
their term of indenture, their time belongs to the man who has leased them
of their parents. The motive for such a contract on the part of the
parents, is to secure a support for the children. Sometimes children run
away from home and make engagements on their own account, attracted by the
supposed freedom of the player's life.
The amount which each child receives during the time of his
apprenticeship, is the merest pittance, and it is said that in three
months at most he can learn all that it is necessary for him to know. A
large part of his duties will be to strut about on the stage, and mouth
more or less unintelligible sentences in a grandiloquent tone. If the
number of plays in which he appears is large, the tax upon the memory may
be considerable, but Chinese children can learn by rote with amazing
facility, and constant practice must in a short time fix in his memory
everything which the young actor requires to remember.
From an Occidental point of view, it would be hard to imagine anything
more remote from a life of pleasure, than the constant locomotion, routine
drudgery, uncertain and inadequate remuneration of the average Chinese
actor. We have never met one who did not admit that it was a bad life. A
leading Japanese actor is quoted as saying that the popular notions in
regard to the theatre of that country--which is probably in many respects
analogous to that of China--are as different from the reality, as clouds
from mud. "The hardships endured are as the suffering of Hades, and the
world is not benefited a fraction by the actors' exertion, so they are not
useful to society. It is a life to fear and to dread." There are probably
very few Chinese actors who have progressed so far as to entertain, even
for a moment, the thought whether their work is a good or an evil to
"society."
It is not uncommon to hear of an exceptionally intelligent District
Magistrate who issues proclamations strictly forbidding theatrical
performances within his jurisdiction, exhorting the people to save their
funds to buy grain and relieve the poor, or to set up public schools. But
the only way to enforce these sensible orders of an unusually paternal
official, is for him to make constant personal inspection, and see that
his commands are heeded. Otherwise, a sum of money judiciously spent at
the _yamAȘn_, will buy complete immunity from punishment. Free schools and
charity are too tame for the taste of the people, who demand something
"hot-and-bustling," which a theatrical performance most decidedly is.
It is one of the contradictions which abound in the Chinese social life,
that while play-actors are theoretically held in very light esteem, the
representation of a play is considered as a great honour to the person on
whose behalf it is furnished. Instances have occurred in China, in which
such a representation has been offered by the Chinese to foreigners, as an
expression of gratitude for help received in time of famine. The motives
in such cases, however were probably very mixed, being composed largely of
a desire on the part of the proposers to gratify their own tastes, while
at the same time paying off in a public manner a technical debt of
gratitude.
To suggest under such circumstances that the money which would have been
absorbed in the expenses of the theatre, should rather be appropriated to
the purposes of some public benefit, such as a free-school, would not
commend itself to one Chinese in a thousand. Only a limited number of
scholars could receive the benefit of a free-school, whereas a theatre is
emphatically for everybody. Moreover, a theatre is demonstrative and
obtrusively thrusts itself upon the attention of the general public in a
manner which to the Oriental is exceedingly precious, while to set up a
free-school would be "to wear a fine garment in the dark," when no one
would know the difference.
The occasion for the performance of a play is sometimes a vow, which may
have been made by an individual in time of sickness, the theatricals to be
the expression of gratitude for recovery. In the case of an entire
village, it is often the returning of thanks to some divinity for a good
harvest, or for a timely rain. A quarrel between individuals is frequently
composed by the adjudication of "peace-talkers" that one of the parties
shall give a theatrical exhibition by way of a fine, in the benefits of
which the whole community may thus partake. In view of the well-known
propensities of the Chinese, it is not strange that this method of
adjusting disputes is very popular. We have known it to be adopted by a
District Magistrate in settling a lawsuit between two villages, and such
cases are probably not uncommon.
Sometimes there is no better reason for holding a theatre than that a sum
of public money has accumulated, which there is no other way to spend. A
foreigner could easily propose fifty purposes to which the funds could be
appropriated to much better advantage, but to the Chinese these
suggestions always appear untimely, not to say preposterous.
When it has been determined to engage a theatre, the first step is to draw
up a written agreement with the manager, specifying the price. This will
vary from a sum equivalent to twenty-five dollars, up to several hundred
dollars. The former amount is, indeed, a bottom price, and would be
offered only to a very inferior company, which might be forced to accept
it, or even a less sum, as better in a slack season than no engagement at
all. During the time of the year, on the contrary, in which the demand for
theatricals is at the maximum, a company may have offers from several
villages at once. Rather than lose the double profit to be made, the
troupe is often divided, and a number of amateurs engaged to take the
vacant places, thus enabling the company to be in two places at the same
date.
It is a common proverb that the country villager who witnesses a theatre,
sees only a great hubbub, a generalisation strictly within the truth. It
is upon this ignorance of the villager that the theatrical manager
presumes when he furnishes an inferior representation, instead of the one
for which his contract calls. But if the villager ascertains the fraud,
consisting either in deficiency of players or inferior acting, he rises in
democratic majesty, and "fines" the company an extra day or two, or even
three days, of playing as a penalty, and from this decision it would be
vain to appeal.
The individual who communicates with the village which hires the
theatrical company, and who receives the money, is called the program
bearer ("_pao-tan ti_"). The scorn in which theatrical folk are supposed
to be held, appears to be reserved for this one individual alone. He makes
arrangements for the conveyance of all the trunks containing the equipment
from the previous place of playing, to the next one, and especially for
the transportation of the staging.
In inland regions, where it is necessary to use animals, it requires a
great many carts to move about so much lumber, which must be done with
great expedition in order not to waste a day, at a time when engagements
are numerous; and, even to a Chinese, time is precious, because the food
and pay of so many persons have to be taken into the account. The carts
for this hauling are provided by the village which is to enjoy the
exhibition, being often selected by lot. Sometimes, however, a small tax
is levied on all the land in the village, and the carts are hired.
The day previous to a theatre in any village is a busy one. Great
quantities of mats are provided, and in a short time some barren spot on
the outskirts of the hamlet begins to assume the appearance of an
impromptu settlement; for aside from the theatre itself, great numbers of
small mat-sheds are put up to be used for cook-shops, tea-shops,
gambling-booths, and the like. During the day, even if the village is but
a small one, the appearance is that of the scene of a very large fair.
In the larger towns, where fairs are held at more or less regular
intervals, it is usual, as already mentioned, to begin them with a
theatrical exhibition, on the first day of which hardly any business will
be done, the attendants being mainly occupied in gazing at or listening to
the play. In such cases the attendants can frequently be safely estimated
at more than 10,000 persons. In large fairs there is generally a
performance every day as long as the fair holds, an arrangement which is
found to be very remunerative from a financial point of view in attracting
attendance, and therefore customers.
From a social point of view, the most interesting aspect of Chinese
village theatricals is the impression which is produced upon the people as
a whole. This impression may be feebly likened to that which is made upon
children in Western lands, by the immediate imminence of Christmas, or in
the United States by the advent of a Fourth of July. To theatrical
holidays in China every other mundane interest must give way.
As soon as it is certain that a particular village is to have a theatre,
the whole surrounding country is thrown into a quiver of excitement.
Visits by young married women to their mothers' homes, always occasions to
both mothers and daughters of special importance, are for a long time
beforehand arranged with sole reference to the coming great event. All the
schools in all the neighbouring villages expect at such times a holiday
during the whole continuance of the theatricals. Should the teacher be so
obstinate as to refuse it (which would never be the case, as he himself
wishes to see the play) that circumstance would make no difference, for he
would find himself wholly deserted by all his pupils.
It is not only brides who take advantage of this occasion to visit their
relatives, but in general it may be said that when a village gives a
theatrical representation, it must count upon being visited, during the
continuance of the same, by every man, woman and child, who is related to
any inhabitant of the village and who can possibly be present. Every
Chinese family has a perfect swarm of relatives of all degrees, and the
time of a theatrical performance is an excellent opportunity to look in
upon one's friends. Whether these friends and relatives have been invited
or not, will make no difference. In the case of ordinary villagers, the
visitors would come even if they knew for certain that they were not
wanted.
It has frequently been remarked that hospitality as such cannot be said
to be a characteristic Chinese virtue, although there is at all times such
a parade of it. But whatever one's feelings may be, it is necessary to
keep up the pretence of overflowing hospitality, so that whoever comes to
the yard must be pressed to stay to a meal and to spend the night, however
anxious the host may be to get rid of him. On ordinary occasions, guests
will not stay without such an amount of urging as may suffice to show that
the invitation is _bonAc fide_, but during the continuance of a theatre it
often makes very little difference how lacking the host may be in
cordiality, the guests will probably decide to stay, as the play _must be
seen_.
It is by no means an uncommon thing to find that in a village which has
engaged a theatrical troupe, every family is overrun with such visitors,
to such a degree that there is not space enough for them to lie down at
night, so that they are forced to spend it in sitting up and talking,
which may be easily conceived to be an excellent preparation for the
fatiguing duties of the morrow. As a theatre seldom lasts less than three
days, and sometimes more than four, it can be imagined what a tax is laid
upon the village which is overrun. When it is considered that every
married woman who returns to her home, as well as every woman who visits
any relative, always brings all of her young children, and that the latter
consider it their privilege to scramble for all that they can get of
whatever is to be had in the way of food, it is obvious that the poor
housekeeper is subjected to a tremendous strain, to which the severest
exigencies of Western life afford very few analogies.
The cost of feeding such an army of visitors is a very serious one, and to
the thrifty Chinese it seems hard that fuel which would ordinarily last
his family for six months, must be burnt up in a week, to "roast" water,
and cook food for people whom he never invited, and most of whom he never
wished to see. It is a moderate estimate that the expense of entertainment
is ten times the cost of the theatre itself, realizing the familiar saying
that it is not the horse which costs but the saddle.
The vast horde of persons who are attracted to the village which has a
theatre, has among its numbers many disreputable characters, against whom
it is necessary for the villagers to be constantly upon their guard. For
this reason, as well as on account of the necessity for being on hand to
look after the swarms of guests, the people of the village have little or
no opportunity to see the play themselves. Guests and thieves occupy all
their time! Eternal vigilance is the price at which one's property is to
be protected, and the more one has to lose, the less he will be able to
enjoy himself, until the danger is over. It is a common observation that,
after a theatrical performance, there is not likely to be a single chicken
left in a village. To prevent them from being stolen by the expert
chicken-thieves, the villagers must dispose of their fowls in advance.
Such being the conditions under which the Chinese village theatre is held,
it is surprising that so great a number of theatrical troupes contrive to
make a living--such as it is--out of so precarious an occupation, which is
likely to fail altogether during years of famine or flood (never few in
number), and also during the whole of each period of imperial mourning,
when actors are often reduced to extreme misery. One reason for their
passionate attachment to the theatre, must be found in the fact that for
the Chinese people there are very few available amusements, and for the
mass of the country people there is literally nothing to which they can
look forward as a public recreation, except a few feast days (often only
two or three in the year), the large fairs with accompanying theatricals,
or theatricals without fairs.
It is evident that a form of exhibition which is so much valued by the
Chinese, may become an important agency in inflaming the minds of the
people. This is at times undoubtedly the case. Many instances have come to
the knowledge of foreigners, in which theatricals representing the
Tientsin massacre or some similar event, have been acted in the interior
of China. In some cases this is doubtless done with the connivance of the
magistrates, and it is easy to see that the effect upon the minds of the
people must be very unfavourable, if it is held to be desirable to
maintain among the Chinese respect for foreigners.
In China, as in other lands, it is easy for theatrical representations to
deal with current events which have a general interest. In a certain case
of warfare involving two different Counties, as to the right to make a
bank to prevent inundation, several lives were lost and a formidable
lawsuit resulted. The occurrences were of such a dramatic character that
they were woven into a play, which was very popular at a little distance
from the scene of the original occurrence.
The representation of historical events, by Chinese theatres, may be said
to be one of the greatest obstacles to the acquisition of historical
knowledge by the people. Few persons read histories, while every one hears
plays, and while the history is forgotten because it is dull, the play is
remembered because it is amusing. Theatricals, it is scarcely necessary to
remark, do not deal with historical events from the standpoint of
accuracy, but from that of adaptation to dramatic effect. The result is
the greatest confusion in the minds of the common people, both as to what
has really happened in the past, and as to when it took place, and for all
practical purposes, fact and fiction are indistinguishable.
Among the most popular Chinese plays, are those which deal with everyday
life, in its practical forms. Cheap and badly printed books, in the forms
of tracts, containing the substance of these plays, are everywhere sold in
great numbers, and aid in familiarizing the people with the plots.
Our notice of the Chinese drama may fitly conclude with a synopsis of one
of these librettos, which contains a play of general celebrity, to which
references are constantly made in popular speech. It is said to have been
composed by a native of Shan-hsi, and is designed as a satire upon the
condition of society in which, as so often in China at the present day,
it is almost impossible for a teacher, theoretically the most honoured of
beings, to keep himself from starvation.
It is a current proverb that in the province of Shan-tung, the number of
those who wish to teach school is in excess of those who can read! The
scene of this play is therefore appropriately laid in the land of the
sages Confucius and Mencius, and in a district within the jurisdiction of
the capital, Chi-nan Fu.
The characters are only two in number, a teacher called Ho Hsien-shAȘng who
is out of employment, and reduced to extreme distress, and a patron named
Li, who wishes to engage a master for his boys, aged nine and eleven. The
teacher's remarks are mixed with extensive quotations from the Classics,
as is the manner of Chinese schoolmasters, who wish to convey an
impression of their great learning. He affirms that his success in
instruction is such that he will guarantee that his pupils shall reach the
first degree of _hsiu-ts'ai_, or Bachelor, in three years, the second of
_chA1/4-jAȘn_, or Master, in six, and attain to the eminence of _chin-shih_,
or Doctor, in twelve.
The teacher begins by a poetical lament that he had lost his place as a
teacher, and that a scholar so situated is far worse off than a
handicraftsman, who, he says, has always enough to eat. After this, the
teacher comes on the stage, crying out like a peddler, "Teach School!
Teach School!" Upon this Li comes forward, suggests that a man who offers
to teach probably knows at least how to read, and explains that he feels
the need of some one in the family who can decipher the tax bills, etc.,
but that he really cannot afford the expense of a teacher for his
children.
He explains that his boys are dull, that the food of the teacher--the bill
of fare of which he details--will be poor and coarse. There will be only
two meals a day, to save expense, and at night there will be no fire. The
coverlet is a torn dogskin, no mat on the bed, only a little straw, and no
pillow. The salary is to be but 8,000 cash a year, but this is subject to
a discount, 800 counting for 1000. The teacher is never to leave the
schoolyard while school is in session.
The school will be held in a temple, hitherto occupied by nuns. These will
be removed to a side room, and the teacher will be required to strike the
bell, sweep out the building, and perform the other necessary services on
the first and fifteenth of each month, and these duties must be executed
with punctilious care. He is also cautioned not to allow his morals to be
contaminated by the nuns whose reputation is so proverbially bad. None of
his salary will be paid in advance, and a _pro rata_ deduction will be
made for every day of absence. During the summer rains the teacher must
carry the children to school upon his back, that they may not spoil their
clothes and make their mother trouble. Whenever school has been dismissed,
the teacher is to carry water, work on the threshing floor, take care of
the children, grind in the mill, and do all and everything which may be
required of him. To all the foregoing conditions, the teacher cheerfully
assents, and declares himself ready to sign an agreement upon these terms
for the period of ten years!
Perhaps the most instructive aspect of Chinese theatricals, is that which
takes account of them as _indices_ to the theory of life which they best
express, a theory in which most Chinese are firm, albeit unconscious,
believers. It is a popular saying that "The whole world is only a
stageplay; why then should men take life as real?" It is in strict
accordance with this view, that the Chinese frequently appear as if
psychologically incapable of discriminating between practical realities
which are known to be such, and theoretical "realities" which, if matters
are pushed to extremities, are admitted to be fictitious.
The spectacular theory of life is never for a moment lost sight of in
China, and it demands a tribute which is freely, unconsciously,
continually, and universally paid. It is upon this theory that a large
proportion of Chinese revelling is based, the real meaning being, "You
have wronged me, but I am not afraid of you, and I call upon all men to
witness that I defy you." It is this theory upon which are grounded
nine-tenths of the acts which the Chinese describe as being done "to save
face," that is, to put the actor right with the spectators, and to prove
to them that he is able to play his part and that he knows well what that
part is. Never, surely, was it more true of any land than of China, that
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players."
IX
VILLAGE SCHOOLS AND TRAVELLING SCHOLARS
The prominent place given to education in China renders the Chinese
village school an object of more than common interest, for it is here that
by far the greater number of the educated men of the empire receive their
first intellectual training. While the schools of one district may be a
little better or worse than those of another, there is probably no country
in the world where there is so much uniformity in the standards of
instruction, and in all its details, as in China.
There are in the Chinese Classics several passages which throw an
interesting light upon the views which have been handed down from
antiquity in regard to the education of children. One of these is found in
the writings of Mencius. Upon one occasion he was asked why the superior
man does not teach his own son. To this Mencius replied that the
circumstances of the case forbid it. The teacher should inculcate what is
correct. When he does so, and his lessons are not practiced, he follows it
up by being angry. Thus he is alienated from his son who complains to
himself that his father teaches one thing and practices another. As a
result the estrangement becomes mutual and deepens. Between father and
son, said Mencius, there should be no reproving admonitions to what is
good, because these lead to such alienations. The ancients, he declared,
exchanged sons, and one taught the son of another.