BIRTH OF A SON--THE MARGARY AFFAIR AND THE CHEFOO CONVENTION--A SECOND
VISIT TO EUROPE--THE PARIS EXHIBITION OF 1878
Three important things occurred in Robert Hart's life between the
years 1870 and 1879. In 1873 his only son was born; 1875 was marked
by the beginning of the famous Margary affair, and in 1878 he went as
President of the Chinese Commission to the Paris Exhibition.
_À propos_ of the birth of his son, there was a very strange--almost
what a Highlander would call an "uncanny"--sequence of dates in
the I.G.'s own life. The year that he himself was born, the 20th of
February--his birthday--fell on the 23rd day of the Chinese First
Moon. Once more it fell on the 23rd of the First Moon in 1854, the
year he came to China, and not again until 1873, when his son first
opened his eyes on this best of all possible worlds. A coincidence if
you like, but still a very remarkable one all the same.
In 1875 the famous Margary affair, destined to become so complicated
later on, first appeared upon the stage of politics in the simplest
possible form. There was one hero and one villain, with a crowd of
shadowy accomplices looking over his shoulder. To this day it is not
certain how many there actually were. We can distinctly follow the
unfortunate hero--his name was Margary, his occupation Interpreter
at a Consulate--on his journey across Yunnan to Burmah as far as
Tengyueh. We know he was cruelly done to death there, but we cannot
sift out truth from falsehood in the rumours that he met his death
with the connivance--and perhaps even under the orders of--the
provincial authorities.
The simple fact of a white man's murder was, of course, bad enough;
but when that white man was an official and on a mission, it was a
hundred times worse. Negotiations between the British Legation and
the Chinese began immediately. On the one side heavy compensation was
demanded, on the other it was argued over and delayed. Neither party
would move a step forward, and presently the Yunnan outrage got
hopelessly mixed with every other disputed question of the day; new
demands sprang up beside old ones; both parties, as Michie says, found
themselves "entangled in a perfect cat's-cradle of negotiations,"
and the Chinese in the privacy of their yamêns were beginning to
ask themselves gloomily, "Will the English fight unless we make full
reparation?"
Would they? There was the rub. But now, the crisis being safely
passed, I may tell that they would--that they very nearly did--and
that the thing that prevented them was nothing more nor less than
the moving of the Customs pew in the British Legation Chapel from the
front of the church to the back. So do great events sometimes hang
upon trifles.
After the arbitrary moving of his accustomed seat, the I.G. remained
away from the Sunday services for more than a year. Then, just when
the political atmosphere was most electric, Bishop Russell, an old
friend of Ningpo days and a charming and genial Irishman, came to
Peking on a visit. He was to preach in the Legation Chapel the next
Sunday, and the I.G. could not resist the temptation of going to hear
his old acquaintance.
Russell was a man of an unconventional and spontaneous type. Because
other people did things in a certain way was no reason why he should
do the same. Consequently, instead of beginning the service by reading
the usual verses, he said, "I would like the congregation to sing a
hymn"; and the hymn that he chose was "God moves in a mysterious
way His wonders to perform." It happened to be one of Robert Hart's
favourites, but beyond feeling pleasure that this particular hymn
should have been chosen, the incident made no great impression on him
at the time.
As soon as the service was over, he went to shake hands with the
Bishop. Russell, however, was obliged to hurry away to address a
Chinese meeting; there was scarcely a moment for talk then. "We must
have a chat about old times," said he cordially; "when may I come and
see you--on Tuesday?"
[Illustration: WELL NEAR THE CANAL, BRITISH LEGATION, BEFORE 1900.]
"By all means on Tuesday. Don't forget," was the answer, and the I.G.
left the chapel with the rest of the congregation.
He noticed as he went out that Sir Thomas Wade had not been in church,
which struck him as odd. Surely in a small community like Peking,
where a Bishop in the pulpit was a rarity, the British Minister would
have made it a point to hear him preach--unless something very unusual
had occurred. Hart therefore went at once to call on Wade and see what
the news might be. News? There was enough and to spare, all of the
most sensational kind. Another deadlock had been reached in the
negotiations. Blacker clouds than ever obscured the horizon; war was
as near as flesh to bone. Luckily the I.G. saw at once that the
new _contretemps_ was due rather to accident than design. A
misunderstanding of Chinese despatches--which are always open to
several translations--had given Wade a wrong impression of the force
of their contents, and the I.G. accordingly begged permission to
explain the point at issue as he saw it.
Two hours later the Minister came completely round to his view, and
the critical moment was safely passed.
On Tuesday at the appointed hour Bishop Russell went to see Robert
Hart. They talked long over old Ningpo days, and presently Russell
said, "D'ye know, Hart, my converts have grown to have such faith in
me that they believe I can not only show them the way to heaven, but
arrange matters on this earth as well. What do you think they said,
now, before I came up to Peking? They said I was coming to prevent
a war with England. And that to me!" added the Bishop, laughing his
wholesome laugh, "who, as you know, am the last man in the world to
concern myself with politics."
"Well," replied the I.G. solemnly, "you have prevented war with
England all the same." And he told the Bishop the whole story. "If
you had not come to Peking," he concluded, "I should not have gone
to church. If I had not gone to church, I should not have noticed the
Minister's absence, and therefore should not have gone in to see him.
Consequently I should never have known of the difficulty which then
threatened the negotiations, and might not have been able to help
remove it. Truly, Russell,
'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.'"
Thus, by a romantic episode, the crisis was tided over--for a time.
Alas! only for a time. A second set-back, more serious even than the
first, interrupted matters again just when they seemed to be going
on most smoothly. It occurred on a Saturday night. On Monday morning,
without saying a word to Hart--or indeed to any one--Wade started off
posthaste to Shanghai to "await orders from his Government." This
bad news greatly upset and alarmed the Yamên. "You must follow him at
once," was the order they sent the I.G., so within twelve hours he too
was on his way to Shanghai, determined on making one more effort
to avert the war which, like a sword of Damocles, was hanging over
China's head.
He was again successful, in so far as he obtained the British
Minister's consent to reopen negotiations with the Chinese. But
where?--that was the question. Should they be held at Shanghai, with
the Viceroy from Nanking to assist, or should they be held at Chefoo,
with the Viceroy of Chihli (who happened to be the great Li Hung
Chang) to help? Wade decided for Chefoo, which, as a cool seaside
resort, was especially suited for the broiling months of August and
September; and Robert Hart immediately wired to Peking to arrange that
Li should come to Chefoo. The Tientsin people protested vigorously
against their Viceroy's going. They even went so far as to throw
petitions in hundreds over the walls of his yamên--petitions all
reminding him of the fate of Yeh Ming Shen, the Governor-General of
Canton in 1858, whom the British seized and sent to Calcutta, where he
died.
Yet, in spite of their warnings, Li showed sufficient absence of
superstition and sufficient patriotism to go, which was certainly
rather noble of him, more especially as his personal inclination was
against touching the affair at all. This he told the I.G. frankly when
they met, and even upbraided Robert Hart rather sharply for, as he
said, "dragging him into the business. If they fail--and there has
been no luck about these negotiations before--I shall be blamed,
whereas if they succeed, it is most unlikely that I shall get any
credit."
But the I.G. reassured him in answer to his complaints. "There will
be no trouble," said he, "no trouble at all if you work with me. Say
nothing, arrange nothing, promise nothing that we do not both agree
upon beforehand." Every evening at ten o'clock, therefore, the I.G.
would go to Li's house, and the two would remain talking, often far
into the night, of what had been done during the day and what was to
be done on the morrow.
Unfortunately in some mysterious way the plans and proposals they
discussed leaked out, allowing the other side to checkmate their best
moves and woefully retard progress. It was really too provoking just
as these troublesome negotiations promised to end so well; it meant
precious time wasted; it meant unnecessary anxiety and worry. But no
matter, history has never been made without trouble to its makers;
the I.G. was well prepared for obstacles; he met them with patience,
discovered their cause with rare intelligence, remedied them with
despatch--and this time the Convention was safely signed. Pens had
been poised over it so long that I can imagine he breathed a sigh of
relief when the signatures were actually on the document.
A big banquet celebrated the signing--a grand affair given by Li to
the personnel of the drama. Most of the Foreign Ministers from Peking
were present, they having come down to Chefoo to see what was going
on. Two British admirals had put in for the same reason, so the
banquet did not lack distinguished guests. The display of uniforms,
medals and decorations was dazzling, while the decorations of the hall
were as gorgeous as splendour-loving Orientals could devise.
The clever Li toasted the occasion by a happy speech, in which he
dwelt on the joy of meeting so many friends together. Most of them
he had known (outwitted, too, I daresay) for some time, but now,
unhindered by the restraints of public business, he could enjoy their
society with a freedom hitherto denied him, and he concluded, "Since
at this port of Yentai [Chefoo] beautiful scenery delights the eye
and cool breezes give health to the body, it is fitting that our
minds should be in harmony with the beauties of nature, cultivating
friendship and sincerity as being the noblest traits of human
character." All of which was very pretty sentiment, and if some poetic
licence got mixed in with the truth, surely the occasion justified the
alliance.
Li certainly had reason to feel pleased with himself and his work. The
Convention was excellent--though it might have been still better
had Robert Hart had more of his own way. He wished, and the Chinese
agreed, to include in it clauses relative to the establishment of
a national Chinese Post Office and the opening of mints for uniform
coinage throughout the Empire. But it did not suit all parties to
allow one man to make too many suggestions, and so his schemes were
frustrated.
Still, over and above all petty international jealousies he had scored
another diplomatic triumph, and the Chinese were duly grateful to him
for his share in the work. That was, after all is said, the secret of
his unique position--that confidence of his Chinese employers which he
never lost. Probably the real reason he kept it so well was because
of his calm and reticent character, because he could never be moved to
anger and impatient words. Sir Thomas Wade, on the contrary, was a
man of exactly the opposite type, and his _ch'i_, better translated
as excitability than anger, often increased his difficulties at a
difficult time.
The I.G.'s association with the great Li Hung Chang by no means ceased
after the Margary affair. Business in the succeeding months frequently
took him to Tientsin--the nearest port, eighty miles from Peking, and
the post of the Chihli Viceroy--and whenever he was there, he had
a standing invitation to lunch with Li--an invitation which he very
often accepted.
What greatly appealed to him about Li's household was its absolute
simplicity. Instead of a wearisome array of courses, never more than
two plates were served--fish, and perhaps a dish of chicken, cooked,
of course, in the Chinese manner and eaten with big portions of rice.
The first was seldom touched. Li would say to his guest, "If you do
not want any fish, we will send it in to the _Taitai_" (his wife,
who, according to Chinese etiquette, was dining in the next room); and
Robert Hart, always the smallest of eaters, would invariably answer
"No," leaving the fish to go whole and untouched to Madame Li, much to
her husband's delight.
One day afterwards in Peking the I.G. happened to speak with his
Chinese writer about Li Hung Chang's household--praising a simplicity
so rarely to be found in the yamêns of the rich and powerful. There
happened to be a long interval before he lunched with the Viceroy
again, and when he did, he noticed to his horror that the servants
were bringing in an array of dishes suitable for a feast. Shark's fins
preceded expensive pickled eggs and followed choice bird's-nest soup.
What could the change mean? Simply that his complimentary remark,
maimed and contorted beyond recognition by ill-informed or mischievous
persons, had travelled to Li's ears, and that he had therefore
determined to treat his guest with the greatest possible formality.
"You shall not have the chance to go away again and say that you have
been fed like a coolie in my house," said the Viceroy proudly at the
end of the banquet.
"Nevertheless, the very simplicity of your hospitality was what I most
appreciated," the I.G. replied. "But if you believe that I could have
made any such remark, and if you persist in altering the style of my
reception, I shall not come to lunch with you again."
As if the cares of treaty making and Customs supervision, coupled with
the responsibility of being unofficial adviser to the Wai-Wu-Pu,
were not enough for one man, the I.G., at the request of the Chinese,
undertook to supervise China's part in the international exhibitions
of Europe. First came the Viennese Exhibition in 1873. He set his
various commissioners of ports collecting the products of their
provinces--silks, porcelains, lacquers and teas. It sounds so simple,
but often what may be told in a dozen words may scarcely be done in as
many months, and little less than a year of writing and planning and
directing can have elapsed before all details were in order, and
his four Commissioners of Customs were driving, like the Marquis of
Carabbas, in a glass coach through the streets of Vienna. The Chinese
spared neither pains nor expense to make a good showing, and gave a
gala performance at the Opera in return for Austrian hospitality.
In 1878 came the Paris Exhibition, and to this he went himself as
President of the Chinese Government's Commission. He arrived in Paris
just before the Exhibition opened--just in time to be present at the
great opening ceremony in fact. This was a very grand affair, but
with--for him--a ludicrous climax. Coming away, he and his secretary
lost their carriage in the crowd, and had to walk the whole way home,
not a cab being obtainable--and this, too, in elaborate and heavy
uniforms, and at the risk of being hooted by _gamins_. But by good
luck, in those days gold lace and medals were so plentiful that they
attracted no embarrassing attention.
[Illustration: SIR ROBERT HART IN 1878.]
Numberless functions, of course, took place in connection with the
Exhibition, and scarcely a night passed without some gigantic official
reception at which two or three thousand people were present. The
Minister of Education, for example, gave a magnificent _soirée_ at
which the old dances, the stately minuet and the graceful pavane, were
danced in splendid and appropriate costumes. Bernhardt, then at the
height of her powers, recited one night at the Élysée; so also did
Coquelin. But to Robert Hart these "crushes" were often an ordeal.
Conventional entertainments never had a great attraction for him;
besides, these gatherings were really too big for any one's comfort or
pleasure; conversation was nearly impossible, and nobody felt at home.
What he did enjoy was a drive in the beautiful Bois with his children,
from whom, for the sake of their education, he had already been
separated for several years. Or else he liked to take them to the
many excellent concerts then being held. They often went to hear the
Norwegian singers who, so the advertisements said, had walked all the
way from their northern home in their quaint national costume, and
they scarcely missed a Wednesday at the Trocadero, where there were
contests of massed bands.
Music, in fact, would draw Robert Hart any day, for he loved it
dearly. Other people might talk learnedly about various schools and
tone poems; he took all he could get silently and with a thankful
heart; and because in far-away Peking he could not count upon others
playing for him, he performed the prodigious feat of learning to play
both violin and 'cello himself without a teacher, and long after he
was a man grown.
Just before the Exhibition closed, all the fine blackwood furniture of
the Chinese pavilion was presented to the Maréchale MacMahon. The
I.G. had to make a speech on this occasion, which he greatly dreaded,
having none of that love of getting on his feet that is characteristic
of the south of Ireland Irishman; but when he did so his voice,
always soft and gentle, with the faintest trace of Irish accent, never
wavered for a moment, and every word he said could be heard by all.
Whether it was the speech making or the festivities or the hard work
or a combination of all three I cannot say, but Robert Hart suddenly
found himself over-tired and threatened with a breakdown of health
by the time the Exhibition closed. Sir William Gull, the famous
specialist, whom he consulted, put the case tersely to him: "If you
will do work, work will do you."
There was nothing for it then but six weeks of idleness at Ischl,
with long walks in the wonderful clear air, another six weeks at
Baden-Baden, and a quiet winter at Brighton. So, much to his regret,
he had very little opportunity to see London or enjoy the life and
gaiety which would have been such a happy contrast to the solitude of
Peking. A few hasty visits--I think the longest lasted scarcely ten
days--left him no time at all to meet the many men whose acquaintance
would have meant so much to him.
The only thing he did of a semi-political character was to accept an
invitation from the Reform Club to address them on the opium question.
The men he met there had all their opinions and convictions settled
beforehand; they had really invited him, the great authority on China,
to agree with them, and no schoolboys who had found that sixpences
had been put into their pockets in the night could have been more
surprised than they when he did not.
At least, it is not exactly accurate to say that he disagreed; he took
a practical view of a question which at that time was regarded with
much heat and sentiment. He quoted statistics to them, proved that
foreign opium was smoked by only one-third of one per cent of the
population of China, and by the calm sanity of his views made much of
their agitation seem unnecessary. But they were finally consoled when
he agreed with them that even so small a percentage in so large a
population meant millions of smokers, and that it would be well to
rescue these from so damaging a habit.
This was the last public affair in which he took part before the close
of 1878, when, being sufficiently recovered in health, he started back
to China, little thinking that he was not destined to see Europe again
for thirty years.