“THE PEACE OF THE EAST.”
ANTUNG CITY.
Within the limit of five degrees the earth offers no stranger contrasts
than those of Japan, Korea, and China. The fairy who watched over the
birth of Japan was of dainty form; Korea had a slut for godmother,
and China an opulent dame. Japan is a land for the poet who sings in
dithyrambics; Korea calls for the scavenger; while China would gladden
the eye of the farmer. But the contrast goes deeper than the soil. The
people have differences more manifest. In Japan is a race new-born--a
brave, hardy, energetic race, with the assurance and vanity of untried
youth inspired with a boundless patriotism. Koreans walk their dung
heaps in winding sheets like corpses looking for an undertaker. Life
has gone out of them, and nothing remains save dirt and decay. Cross
the Yalu and you have journeyed on the magic carpet so wonderful is
the change. Here is a fine, healthy, vigorous people, instead of a
moribund; here industry takes the seat of lethargy; here is pride of
race which awaits only the awakening voice of patriotism.
Strangers in all countries are apt to form hasty conclusions, and to
pronounce very decided opinions on insecure basis. But war is a good
crucible in which to sift all character. Its terrors and surprises;
its privations and sacrifices bring into instant and bold relief the
qualities of a people. You have not to grope for them in metaphysical
darkness. They stand out before you by day in a pillar of cloud, and by
night in a pillar of fire. The people of Manchuria, whether Manchu or
Chinese, have proved themselves men. They are the victims of war who
have not the satisfaction of shouldering a rifle; yet they stood firm
and received the victor without cringing and the vanquished without
insult.
When I rode into Antung two days after the passage of the Yalu the town
had a holiday aspect. The streets were filled with people, above whose
bare heads and black pigtails towered posts that looked like glorified
Venetian masts. They are flat boards, thirty feet high, stained a dull
black and covered with ideographs in relief. Near the top is a disc of
tin that catches the rays of the sun and shines with the fierce light
of the dragon’s eye. The ideographs are in gold, and live and talk as
only Chinese letters live and talk among all the written characters of
the world. Standing in rows a few paces from the doors these glittering
boards proclaim the merits of Wang Fungtsao’s merchandise and Yuan
Siekai’s skill as a builder of Pekin carts; but to the stranger they
are more than sign posts; they are monuments the brilliance and
magnificence of which are stars in the drab dulness of a Chinese town.
What brought the citizens into the streets? With eager outstretched
faces they lined the high footway; their blue cotton garments and
felt shoes filled the road, and on every intelligent yellow face was
a look of earnest anticipation. Yet not a sound came from them. The
mob divided, and there appeared the dark blue of Japanese soldiers.
They marched with rifles shouldered, and their immobile faces actually
betrayed excitement. The crowd opened, and behold a long dark line
of men walking in couples--men of a different race, fair men with
blue eyes and blonde moustache, wearing caps of Astrakan and dyed
sheepskin. They had the erect, easy carriage of soldiers, and each
man’s earth-stained face wore the impress of his mood. The glance
of the youth with the fierce moustache wandered over the crowd with
haughty disdain; the man with the scar on his brow had his eyes in
infinite space--he was seeing visions of vengeance--the comrade near
him scowled under a blood-stained sheepskin; while the veteran behind
accepted the fortune of war with easy indifference. A soldier in the
hands of his enemies arouses a great compassion. He is the embodiment
of helplessness and despair, to whom his bitterest foe will render aid
and comfort. But a band of prisoners excite many emotions. They have
the semblance of strength and purpose strangely out of keeping with
the idea of captivity. One wonders how they allowed themselves to be
taken, and if they will not arise and burst their bonds. I would like
to know what thoughts were passing through the minds of the Japanese
soldiers who looked on. They must have been the thoughts of men vowed
to death or victory, for every soldier of the Mikado is nurtured on
the traditions of the Samurai, who counts life nothing if the cause
be lost. The Chinese watched with eager curiosity the march of their
late masters under a foreign guard. He does not love the Russian who
stole his country, but with the Chinaman love of self is stronger than
love of country; he is before all else an individualist, and knows not
what a day may bring forth--it may be a Siberian guard or a Japanese
procession. He prudently waits upon events which are his true master.
“The Peace of the East”--that is the literal meaning of Antung--was
one of the immediate causes of the war. In accordance with commercial
treaties concluded between China on the one part and Japan and the
United States on the other, it was a treaty port open to foreign trade.
Russia had another destiny in view for Antung, but the new diplomacy
which ratifies and signs treaties with an electric pen that reaches on
the instant across the world, proved too quick for the fate ordained
in St. Petersburg, and “The Peace of the East” is still nominally an
open port. An American Consul had been appointed, and was reported
to be on his way hither. Antung is situated on the right bank of the
Yalu, about twenty miles from its mouth, in the province of Feng-t’ien.
The approaches and estuary are not charted, but are well known to the
masters of coasting vessels who make occasional visits in the Autumn
to purchase raw silk and cocoons. Navigation is rendered difficult
by shoals and sandbanks, yet junks can ascend the river for fifty
miles, and the Japanese gunboats that bombarded the Russian position
North-west of Antung have shown that a channel may be found for
steamers of deeper draft than was generally supposed. A large number
of junks are employed in the commerce of Antung which is considerable,
the imports consisting of nankeens, oil, iron, and provisions;
while the exports are timber, planks, bean-cake--an excellent horse
feed--liquorice, and “wild” silk.
Measured by our own standards Antung is not clean. The smells that rise
up from unexpected places and assault you are occasionally alarming;
dust and dirt affront you on all sides; and the people are unwashed.
Yet compared with most Chinese cities, Antung is a Dutch kitchen, and
to step from Korea into Manchuria is to step out of a noisome swamp
into a clear cool stream. The streets are fairly wide and the footpath,
where it exists, is raised two or three feet above the road. The houses
are one storied and are built of dark stone roofed with heavy tiles.
At its best the town has a mean and dingy aspect, and does not improve
on closer acquaintance. When the Japanese entered, the streets looked
like rows of poor shops with the shutters up, for Chinese doors are
shutters, as you discover when in answer to knock and cry of “Kaimeni”
the side of a house begins to come away in sections. Those of us who
kept up with the advance were quartered upon a wealthy merchant at
whose door stood one of the glorified sign posts. His house is a type
of all well-to-do houses in Manchuria. On each side of the entrance
hall is a large and lofty room with shelves along the walls, and at one
end a broad platform covered with straw matting. These are the shops or
warehouses. The shelves are empty, for everything has been removed and
hidden until confidence has been restored by the proclamations which
the Japanese make haste to post upon the walls calling upon the people
to resume their ordinary pursuits and assuring them of protection to
life and property. Between these two apartments the entrance hall
leads direct into a courtyard, on one side of which are stables and
piggeries, and on the other a row of small rooms used as dwellings.
These rooms also have mat covered platforms which serve the purpose
of beds and lounges and are lighted by windows of oil paper attached
to moveable wooden frames. The floors are of beaten earth and the
furniture consists of a table, a chair, one or two stools and a wooden
bench. The ceiling has a picture paper and the blackened walls show
traces of a paper of geometric design. Everything about the place is
solid and substantial after the manner of things Chinese, but dirt and
squalor prevail.
The Manchus having given the dynasty to the Empire claim the privilege
of conquerors. They pay no taxes; the examinations that open the
door to preferment are made easy for them; they draw pay and rations
from the government and do no work. With such incentives, it is not
surprising to find them indolent, ignorant and self-satisfied. They
have lost all manly qualities except pride of race. A Manchu may
condescend to marry a Chinese woman; but a Chinaman is not permitted
to marry a Manchu woman though the Empress Dowager has issued an edict
recommending such marriages. Between the Chinese, who call themselves
Min-jen or civilians, and the Bannermen or Ch’i-jen, it is hard to
detect any difference in dress or appearance. The Manchu women dress
their hair differently and do not bind the feet of their daughters;
although in order to imitate the tottering gait of their Chinese
sisters they wear shoes with thick soles curved inward from toe to
heel. But the Manchus are only a very small part of the population of
Antung; their number throughout the Empire probably does not exceed
three millions. It is the industrious Chinese or Min-jen who make the
trade and commerce of this treaty port.
The Japanese troops had not been twenty-four hours in the town before
it began to put off its impoverished look. Small and mysterious
packages appeared on shelves that had gaped in emptiness: bean cake
and chopped straw were dragged out from dark corners: horses and
mules and Pekin carts walked out of space: and that which seemed
a famine-stricken and denuded city became a mart. The change was
gradual, for the Chinese are suspicious and demanded proof of the good
intentions of the new invaders. The vendor of sweet cakes and eggs and
a vile concoction of alcohol and fusil oil was the first to hazard his
wares, and the result must have been satisfactory, since the cashier
presently took his seat at the desk in the warehouse, or large store,
and goods were exchanged for military notes issued by the Japanese.
These notes, by the way, were at first accepted with great reluctance,
and at a discount of ten per cent., which made the purchaser anxious to
avoid them: but confidence was soon restored and they were accepted at
face value, though the cost of everything which was previously measured
by the Mexican or silver dollar was fixed by the Japanese yen: in other
words prices rose fifty per cent.
When you leave the dingy heart of the town and approach the river you
realise that Antung is a place of considerable importance. The Yalu at
this point is about a mile wide and the river front is crowded with
junks--those square-built square-rigged boats that swarm over the
Yellow Sea and are capable of sailing one hundred miles in six hours or
in sixty. Many are engaged in trade with Yongampo, the head quarters of
the Russian Far Eastern Timber and Mining Company, on the other side of
the Yalu, while others run between Manchuria and Chinese and Japanese
ports. In the creeks are more junks building or being repaired, and
on the banks are piles of timber and bean cake awaiting shipment. A
busy and picturesque scene the river presents with its tangle of brown
sails; its blue-gowned sailors; and its wooden ships with all their
strength and grace of line.
After two nights I quitted the house of the merchant to make my abode
in a temple on the outskirts of the town. The temple stands near the
foot of a green hill, and is one of the richest in the Empire. Before
its walls stretches a broad open space, in the centre of which is a
stone building--an open-air theatre, with a beautiful roof decorated
with dragons and bells that breathe sweet melodies to the gentle
breeze. The theatre used for religious celebrations was closed. The
outer wall of the temple is of stone, with a broad band of pink wash
along the middle, and you reach the outer court through a circular
gate. Flights of stone steps lead to a stone balcony, from which gates
give access to smaller courtyards, on each side of which are spacious
rooms that appear to have no sacerdotal use, and are probably the
apartments of the priests. The temple proper forms the outer wall
of the square, and is separated into several shrines, each of which
has its particular deity and images. The interiors of these shrines
resemble Roman Catholic chapels in their elaborate decoration, their
lamps and candles and their graven images. This temple, I was told,
is dedicated to Taoism, which was imported from India long before the
Christian era, and numbers its votaries by millions. It is named the
Temple of the River God, though all the gods and goddesses of Olmpus
appear to be gathered under its roof. Here, in a shrine which the aged
priest showed to me with conscious pride--an ornate and beautiful
shrine--sits the god of war gorgeously apparelled, a pompous rather
than terrifying figure, with full red cheeks, a straggling black beard
and dark oblique eyes. In a neighbouring shrine images of goddesses,
some of them carrying infants that might have been modelled from
Italian masters. The priest exhibited these treasures with the languid
air of one who took pity on the ignorant Western devil who had invaded
these sacred precincts. He was a courteous old gentleman, wrapped up in
that impenetrable conceit which protects China against the influence of
the West.
I pitched my tent in the outer court, and woke every morning to a new
admiration of the beauty and simplicity of the roof of the temple. It
was a source of unending delight to the eye. The form, I am sure, is
taken from the tent--that square tent of the nomad--for it falls in
simple and graceful lines from the ridge pole, and is picked up at the
corners as a dainty maid holds her skirts. Tiny dragons and devils sit
upon the ribs and grin down from the eaves: they look as if they had
just alighted and were about to take flight again. And the colour is
splendid, with rich greys and deep browns above a border of crimson and
gold.
One morning I was aroused by the droning of pipes, the clashing of
cymbals, and the beating of a drum. Looking out of my tent I saw three
men in the outer court whose poor dress and unwashed faces led me to
believe that they were itinerent musicians, of whom it was desirable
to be rid by the present of a few cash. They were, however, the temple
minstrels, and this was a feast day, for trooping through the gates
came crowds of citizens of Antung, all clean and well dressed for
the occasion. Some of them bore gifts of money: others of kind, such
as pigs and wheat: but the majority were content with joss sticks.
Entering the temple in small parties they spread carpets before the
images and performed the rites of genuflection and raising of hands,
precisely like the action of the Roman Catholic priest at the altar.
Lighting their joss sticks they placed them in a box before the shrine
and left them to pour incense of smoke, while some minor priest beat
the tom-tom and clashed the cymbals to call the attention of the god
to this act of worship. In the little courtyard before the shrine
stood a stone lamp--a pillar of stone with a cavity on the top. To
this lamp were attached long strings of crackers that produced much
smoke and noise to the satisfaction of the multitude. The scene and the
ceremony were familiar rather than strange, and carried my mind to the
house on the hill where the Danish Lutheran missionary--the Rev. J.
Vyff--preaches against an idolatry in which he recognises many points
of close resemblance with the religions of the West.