MEMORIES OF HONG-KONG
HONG-KONG exemplifies the national reserve of two great nations.
Hong-Kong is the home of countless Chinamen, and the residence of many
Englishmen, but the two know little of each other.
After having lived for some months in Hong-Kong, I have concluded that
there are no two nations, one Oriental and the other Occidental, that so
closely resemble each other as do the English and the Chinese.
Englishmen are intensely Western; Chinamen are intensely Eastern. But
those are, after all, merely matters involving local colour. Local
colour affects the details of daily national life, but does not
necessarily destroy or create great basic race characteristics.
Chinamen and Englishmen have, in common, indefatigable industry,
indomitable courage, unswerving perseverance, reticence, pride, fidelity
to a bargain, love of law and order, faith in the old, mistrust of the
new. Both love horses; both were originally hunters; both indulge in
games of chance—sometimes too often; both are respecters of rank; both
venerate genius; both are considerate of women and children; both have
produced great and enduring literatures; both have developed science;
both resent the slightest encroachment upon their rights—individual or
national; both are slow to anger and slower to forgive; both lack a
supreme taste in dress; and in a hundred other ways they resemble each
other.
The English race is painted on the canvas of life with stern reliable
grays; the Chinese race is painted with dull serviceable blues. The
Chinese have the advantage of the more vivid, picture-like background.
Nature is brilliant and aggressive in China. Chinese architecture is
fantastic and often crude. But both are softened. The bold, bright
scenery is made lovely and almost gentle by endless trails of dainty
vines, great clumps and long lines of feathery bamboo, fields of wild
white roses, and ragged masses of chrysanthemums. The grotesque
Mongolian architecture is toned to beauty and fitness by its antiquity,
and by its quaint tent-like outlines.
There is no city in the world more beautifully situated than Hong-Kong.
As a matter of fact, there is no city named Hong-Kong, but there is a
city called Hong-Kong. The island is named Hong-Kong, and its one city
is named Victoria, but it is always called Hong-Kong. It is so much more
rational to call a Chinese city by a Chinese rather than an English
name—even though the English flag waves over it—that we may adopt the
custom and forget the fact.
“The Peak” crowns Hong-Kong naturally and socially. The beauty of the
island culminates where the huge ferns break again the lovely broken
outlines of the Peak, and the blue sky backgrounds with topaz the big
green fronds. The European élite of the island lives as near the Peak as
it can, and descends in its coolie-borne chair to the streets and byways
of Hong-Kong. The Peak is the climatic salvation of European life in
Hong-Kong. When the heat of Hong-Kong the lowly is not to be endured of
European vitalities, why then the Europeans of lower Hong-Kong reverse
the action of Hong-Kong’s élite. The dwellers in Hong-Kong the lower
ascend to the Peak, where it is always delightfully comfortable,
invigoratingly cool. But they do not, as a rule, come up in chairs—the
middle-class Anglo-Hong-Kongians; they come up on the cable railway,
which is far quicker, and only costs, if I remember, ten sen!
But there is one more word to be said in praise of the Peak. Europeans
can boast of three gastronomic achievements in Asia. The hotels in the
East are, as a rule, bad; but there are a few exceptions; and of those
few, three are Bonifaced by Europeans. A dear old American darky
presides smilingly over a capital hotel on the Peak.
It poured when we first reached Hong-Kong. But I am always delighted to
get on to firm land—even if it is rain-soaked and muddy.
The chattering coolies and a thousand sampans swarmed about our ship.
The sampans seemed scrupulously clean and were indescribably quaint.
Women stood in them and propelled them, using in a masterly way long
bamboo poles. The women wore full blue trousers, and black sack-like
long-skirted coats that shone like oilcloth. They all wore ear-rings and
bracelets of jade. The men wore their droll rain-coats and
conical-shaped hats that had immense brims and were made of bamboo
splints. They jabbered like magpies; and the scene was infinitely more
Chinese than any I had seen in the harbour at Shanghai. Soon a
business-like little tug came alongside, with Mr. Paulding standing
smiling in the prow. He had a nice new umbrella and a very nice new hat.
I never remember arriving at a new point in our Eastern journeyings and
being met by Mr. Paulding minus a new hat. It was his one mania, and a
very harmless one; but I believe it more than once provoked his Madrassi
boy to tears. Mr. Paulding could never be induced to part with one of
his hats, nor to allow them to be roughly stowed away with the heavy
luggage. Sam used to look both picturesque and pathetic when he
staggered on to a boat, or boarded with difficulty a train, bearing
about his patient but unwilling person some dozens of hat boxes and
topees.
Much to my disappointment we were transferred to the steam launch. I had
artistic yearnings toward a sampan; but we were in a hurry, so the
picturesque was sacrificed to the expeditious.
After breakfast—for it was still early—we walked to the theatre. I
only know of two European theatres in China; but both are excellent—bar
dressing-rooms. The theatre in Hong-Kong is in the Town Hall. It was not
only nice, but it was clean.
We had in Hong-Kong a, for us, long holiday. Madame Patey and an
admirable company of artists had possession of the theatre. We
waited—unless I forget—a week or more, before we opened. The days I
spent in prowling about Hong-Kong; and each night that Madame Patey
sang, we had a feast of music.
Mr. Paulding had engaged a jinrickshaw and a coolie for me before we
arrived. He had learned that wherever we were I would go—go all the
time; and that the drain on the managerial exchequer was rather less if
some vehicle of locomotion was bargained for, for me, before-hand. It
was impossible to hire a carriage, because there were none. The Governor
had a landau, if I remember, and some one else had some kind of a
carriage, and there were a few dog-carts—a very few. Hong-Kong is so up
and down—most of the streets are up so many flights of steps—that a
trap would be comparatively useless. Indeed the ’rickshaws have often to
go very much round about, where a chair “can go right up.” And there are
many nooks of beauty to which the jinrickshaws cannot take you at all.
We were great friends—were Chung Lim, my ’rickshaw coolie, and I,
although he knew no English and utterly failed to understand my Chinese.
He was a little creature, but oh! how he ran. When the amah and the
hotel clerk between them had made him understand that I did not care
where I went, but that I wished to go everywhere, and that I was vastly
more interested in the Chinese than in the European quarter, he went
sturdily to work to show me Hong-Kong, and show me Hong-Kong he did. For
hours he used to run me up and down the long, narrow streets. From the
upper windows of the tall, slim buildings hung the newly-washed garments
of the natives. They were all cut after one generous ungraceful pattern,
and were all of true Chinese blue, which is not true blue at all, it is
so nearly a dull gray. Red paper streamers strung about the open doors
told the shop-keepers’ names and the nature of their wares.
When I wished to stop the jinrickshaw I had to give a most undignified
grunt, or tap Chung Lim sharply with my parasol. As I rarely carried a
parasol I usually had to grunt. Grunting is one of the things a woman
does not like to chronicle of herself; but it was the only sound to
which my Hong-Kong coolie would pay the slightest attention. I tried
screaming once or twice; but he evidently thought that I was singing,
and he ran swiftly on. A grunt was something so akin to his own guttural
mode of speech that he invariably recognised it as an attempt upon my
part to communicate an idea or a desire.
I halted my “human horse” very often. Men passed me with great baskets
of joss sticks; and though Chung Lim shook his head, I used at first to
stop and buy from each vendor a few of the scented sticks; but I soon
found that my coolie was right. They were a very bad quality of joss
sticks indeed, those that I bought on the streets of Hong-Kong; but at
the proper shops (and I soon found where they were), I bought great
armfuls of the slim, fragrant incense sticks. And as I write, the long
spark and the thin flame of a burning joss stick carries me back to
China; and if I shut my eyes a moment, I can fancy myself back in a
grotesque joss house to which Chung Lim and I very often went. It is
called, if I remember, “Tin How.” I always took a bunch of joss sticks
with me. I used to divide them with Chung Lim, who lit his share before
his joss and said “Chin-chin” to me. I think that Chung regarded me as
mad, but he never refused anything I offered him; and though I
persistently prowled about the native quarters of Hong-Kong, my
intrusion was never resented, though it evidently caused a good deal of
amazement. Sometimes I stayed in the joss house and burned incense too,
and tried to sketch the wonderful types of humanity that were gathered
before the big joss. But oftener I roamed about outside, gathering
flowers and trying to make friends with some workmen who were digging a
few yards from the temple door. Often I sat in the ’rickshaw and studied
the exterior of the joss house. I never grew tired of looking at it.
Beneath the roof were depicted, in wonderful relief and bas-relief,
scenes from Chinese history. They were dramatic in outline, and charming
in glorious colouring.
The walls were hung with gorgeous panels, each of which was a prayer or
a sermon. Upon the edge of the roof sprawled strange crustations.
Beneath them was carved a fringe of conventionalised shells. Under this
hung a narrow curtain of wood or stucco, on which, in bas-relief, were
marvellous fruits, quaint flowers, odd figures, and impossible fish.
This scant curtain was finished with an odd lace-like carving which
told, as every bit of conventional decoration in China tells, the
omnipotence of bamboo. Dreadful dragons and indescribable elephants
supported the roof, and rested upon great graceful beams, from which
hung huge lanterns made of silk, of paper, of tinsel, and of bamboo—the
soft lamps of Cathay!
Near the doorway sat a personage—priest or merchant, I knew not which.
He wore gold spectacles, he smoked opium through a silver pipe, and he
committed upon you righteous, ecclesiastical robbery when he sold you
joss sticks and prayers. I do not mean that he prayed for you; that he
would, I fancy, under no circumstances do. But he sold you prayers
printed upon slips of red Chinese paper. The Mongolian characters
puzzled you a bit perhaps! That was insignificant—the Chinese gods
could read them.
Upon the temple steps sat a stolid, motley crew. I used to buy
vicious-looking yellow cakes from one fellow, and from a
sour-appearanced old woman I never failed to buy my handkerchief full of
the nuts of my childhood. She always rang my bit of money on the temple
steps to see that I had not cheated her, and I always was a bit
disappointed in her wares. Can you imagine a woman, who in her old age
will not grow childish, because in her mature womanhood she has never
ceased to be a child,—can you imagine her, half sitting, half
reclining, in a Chinese ’rickshaw, and as the ’rickshaw is pulled
through the pungent, hilly woods of Hong-Kong, saying in her wicked
cosmopolitan heart, as she munches the peanuts of Cathay, “There are no
peanuts but in America, and only an American darky or a naturalised
Italian can roast them”?
Opposite the joss house sat a Chinese fortune-teller. His table stood in
front of a big rock, about which graceful trees hung. Over the table was
a cabalistic cloth, and the Mongolian wizard foretold your fate, using
bamboo slips character-inscribed, and he was quite as infallible as any
Occidental fortune-teller whom I ever patronised.
I often used to manufacture an excuse to go into and to linger in the
courtyard of a Chinese carpenter who interested me greatly. He was one
of the few accessible Chinamen I have ever known. It is very difficult
to write positively of China, even after some residence there. The
Chinese will tell you nothing, and, with a few exceptions, the Europeans
who have spent half their lives there know nothing. But my friend, the
carpenter, did give me a few peeps into China. He was almost always
sawing, and his brother was almost always smoking a slender pipe that
was nearly as long as himself. Two “sew sew” women often sat upon a low
bench mending the tattered garments of the carpenter and his
_confrères_.
“Sew sew amahs” are one of the institutions of China. A London paper has
recently advocated, as an occupation for deftly needled but impecunious
gentlewomen, the going from mansion to mansion and the mending of
dilapidated garments. In China, that has been, for hundreds of years, an
acknowledged profession for women. The “sew sew amahs” are really very
useful. They sit outside your door or in a secluded corner of your
garden, and stitch, stitch, stitch, for two sen a day, until you are
whole again and clothed in your right garments. The Chinese women do not
sew as well as do the Chinese men. It is only in the Orient and in Paris
that man realises what a superior, noble occupation dressmaking is. But
the women of the East mend very adequately; and I for one congratulate
them that, among all their other miseries, they are not expected to
devote their lives to the designing and first sewing of loom-woven fig
leaves.
Has it ever occurred to the champions of the women of the East, that the
Oriental man has not only crushed the Oriental woman beneath his cruel
heel, but that he has robbed her of her most effeminate privilege, since
he has usurped her sharp sceptre—her needle?
Happy Valley is a lovely spot, circled by gray-green hills and feathered
bamboo. It is the race-course of Hong-Kong. Here ponies are run and
frocks from home are worn, sandwiches are eaten and cool wines are
drunk, and, take it all in all, it is quite like a toy Derby. It is a
magnification of the “Ascot” that you may buy in the Lowther Arcade for
a few pounds. No, it is not. No toy maker, though he were as tenderly
sympathetic as sweet Caleb Plummer, much less a maker of toys in
Germany, could manufacture such a toy as nature and Anglo-residents have
made Happy Valley.
Separated from the race-course by a narrow bamboo-edged road is the
Happy Valley Cemetery—an acre of beauty sacred to the eternal sleep of
dead Europeans. I know of no other cemetery so beautiful in all our
world. I know of no place commemorative of the dead that compares in
loveliness with the Happy Valley Cemetery, save only the Taj Mahal. One
is the triumph of nature; one is the supreme art triumph of man: but
over both Death is triumphant, and the Indian Princess and the English
wanderers are at rest—asleep and oblivious.
Only an even more presumptuous pen than mine would attempt to describe
the Hong-Kong Public Gardens. They are matchless. Their flora is both
mighty and lace-like; and from their detailed beauty you look away to
the panoramaed beauty of Hong-Kong.
As I write on from page to page, the little story of our Eastern
wanderings, I grow a bit frightened at my own temerity. I do so want to
describe the wonderland through which we wandered, and I am so unable to
describe it. China baffles me most. The country is so intricate with a
thousand beauties, the people so unapproachable, their customs so
puzzling, so almost inexplicable. But my excuse for trying to do what I
am not fit to do, must be the old excuse, the great excuse, the excuse
of love. I love the Orient; I prattle about it like a child perhaps; but
if I could inspire one tired European to go East for a little to rest
his eyes, his feet, and his heart, in the great, kind Oriental
wonderland, then I should be, for once at least, a benefactor.
My boy and I spent many a happy half-day, being carried up and down the
Hong-Kong hills—he in one chair, I in another. It was in Hong-Kong that
he was promoted from dresses to trousers, and he used to sit in his
high-swung chair, quite fearlessly, and chatter to his bearers. I was a
little frightened at first lest they should drop him, but I soon learned
how foot-sure they were and how careful of their light little burden.
They never encouraged my advances towards good-fellowship; but they were
ready enough to teach him the name of a flower or a bird, to run or to
walk, as he wished. And often and often they spared one of their scanty
coins to buy him a sweetmeat.
The heat in Hong-Kong was not excessive when we were first there, but it
was warm enough to make the Peak a luxury. And it was a charming change
to go to a friend’s bungalow not far from the Bowen Road and drink
afternoon tea. And what dinners we used to have in some of those cool,
white bungalows; and how we sang softly as we went home through the
starlight.
But it was “China town” that I really loved. I have been in Hong-Kong
where European women do not go—where, I believe, no other European
woman has been. I have gone through dark arcades where hundreds of
natives struggled with life and with each other. I have begged a
mouthful of rice from a sampan woman. I have wandered alone until I was
completely lost, and had to ask my way back to the world of hotels and
Europeans. I never met with the slightest incivility. I found the
Chinese everything that I had been told they were not.
At night, when I was not working, I used to get into my ’rickshaw and
let Chung Lim pull me along the beautiful harbour until the beauty of
the night had reconciled me to everything and every one, myself
included.
I do not know where Chung Lim slept, nor where he ate. He was always at
the hotel door when I went down, day or night; always smiling and ready
to run with me to the island’s end. I paid him one yen per day. When we
finally left Hong-Kong, I gave him five yen more than I owed him; and a
sacrilegious English boy who lives in Hong-Kong, and to whose patronage
I recommended Chung Lim, wrote me the other day, “Chung Lim still burns
joss sticks to your memory.”