YUAN PAO HÊNG SUGGESTS PROHIBITION OF OPIUM SMOKING IN CHINA--NEW
BUILDINGS FOR THE INSPECTORATE--THE FIRST INFORMAL POSTAGE
SERVICE--THE FRENCH TREATY OF 1885--OFFERED POST OF BRITISH MINISTER
Curiously enough, almost as soon as Robert Hart was back in Peking
(1880) the opium question was brought to his attention again. This
time it was by a Chinese official--one Yuan Pao Hêng, an uncle of the
famous Yuan Shih Kai, whose influence is paramount in the Flowery
Land to-day, and who more than any other single man was probably
responsible for the Imperial Edict (1906) which ordered the opium
traffic to be abolished within ten years.
The uncle was as bitter an enemy of the drug as his nephew, but though
his views were sound they were in advance of his time, and the I.G.
very properly pointed out to him that the cultivation of the poppy
could not be stopped suddenly. However wise theoretically it might
be to do this, practically it would be dangerous. A great source of
revenue must not be cut off abruptly, or China might find herself in
the position of the man in the old fable, who thoughtlessly mounted
the tiger, and then found out too late that he had forfeited the right
to dismount when and where he pleased.
Haste in the Far East is a commodity for which it is easy to pay too
high a price--when it is obtainable at all--which, to tell the truth,
it generally is not. "Change slowly--if change you must" has ever been
the motto of China, and for years the capital itself was an example
of the saying. Improvements were not encouraged. There were no more
public buildings in 1879 than in 1863. I doubt if a single tumble-down
wall had been replaced--the dirt and smells still remained, and the
roads were no smoother. Only a few more Legations had established
themselves there, and, by clustering together, they formed what might
by courtesy be called a Legation Quarter, which lay between the pink
wall of the Imperial City--the innermost of the ring of three cities
that form Peking--and the frowning, machicolated grey wall of the
Tartar town.
The Chinese, partly no doubt with the idea of keeping all the
foreigners together and partly for the convenience of business,
presently gave the I.G. a piece of land in this quarter, and he
accordingly moved down to comparative civilization--as we understand
it--from his far-away corner of the suburbs, as soon as the buildings
were ready. He had a modest row of low offices, several houses for his
staff, each standing, Indian fashion, in its own compound, and, in a
large garden, his own dwelling.
This, like the rest, was a bungalow--for the Chinese in those days
objected to high buildings lest they should overlook the Palace--and
built in the form of a letter H, partly from a sentimental connection
with his own initial, and partly to utilise all the sunshine and
southerly breeze possible. Two fine drawing-rooms, a billiard- and
a dining-room filled the cross-bar of the letter: one of the
perpendicular strokes was the west, or guest wing; the other contained
his own private offices, a special reception-room, furnished in
Chinese style--stiff chairs and rigid tables--for Chinese guests, and
his living-rooms. It was characteristic of the man that these were the
most unpretentious rooms in the whole house.
Undoubtedly one of the chief reasons which allowed Peking to preserve
its mediæval aspect intact for so many years was the difficulty of
communicating with the rest of the world for several months of the
year. Its port, Tientsin, was ice-bound from November to March, and
the foreign community was therefore completely cut off during the long
winter. Neither letters nor papers enlivened _la morte saison_
until the I.G. conceived the idea of arranging a service of overland
couriers from Chinkiang, a port on the Yangtsze, to Peking. The seven
hundred miles intervening was covered by mounted men, who took
from ten to twelve days for the journey, and they as well as their
mounts--the latter of course in relays--were provided on contract by
a clever old mafoo (groom) who had the reputation of getting the best
ponies for the Tientsin amateur race meetings, and who was in league
with all the picturesque Mongol horse-dealers.
[Illustration: OUTSIDE SIR ROBERT HART'S HOUSE BEFORE 1900.]
On the whole the system worked admirably, though of course there were
occasional hitches. Sometimes a messenger was attacked by bandits on
the way and had his bags stolen. I know once the I.G. chuckled over
such a disaster. It so happened that in the missing bags there was one
letter which he had written giving an appointment in the Customs to a
certain man. No sooner was it gone than he regretted what he had
done, and would have recalled his decision had it been possible. Well,
believe it or not, this and one other were the only two letters of
that lost pouch ever discovered, and they came into the possession of
a French Missionary Bishop and were afterwards returned by him to the
I.G.
Now and again, too, an accident happened to the incoming mails even
after they reached Peking. Of course they were taken direct to the
Inspectorate for sorting, and while headquarters were still in the
_Kau Lan Hu Tung_ the messenger was more than once thrown on his
way down to the Legations--perhaps he met one of those gong-beating
processions which would be enough to frighten a hobby-horse--and his
mails recklessly distributed by the terrified animal. And sometimes a
courier would stumble into a ditch in the rainy season when the road
was all river, and narrowly escape being drowned, but these little
incidents were only the fortunes of war.
It is not to be wondered at, considering the international work he was
doing, that his own country decorated Robert Hart as early as 1879.
It is only strange--to me--that they gave him no more than a humble
C.M.G. But this was soon changed into a K.C.M.G., and, as it happened,
at a most opportune moment---just when an American University
conferred an LL.D. upon him. There he was within an ace of being
called "Doctor" for the rest of his life, when the knighthood
providentially came to save the situation. The K.C.M.G. was followed
by a G.C.M.G., and the G.C.M.G. by a baronetcy, both the Liberals and
Conservatives giving him honours alternately. The last, the baronetcy,
came from Gladstone's Ministry, and with it he received a friendly
letter from the Grand Old Man, who always admired him immensely, and
said so when a brother of the I.G.'s--at the time in Europe acting
as interpreter to Li Hung Chang--was presented at a big dinner to the
Premier.
[Illustration: PEKING: A MESSENGER CARRYING MAILS IN THE RAINY
SEASON.]
"So you are a Mr. Hart from China," he remarked. "You should feel very
proud of a man who has made his name illustrious for all time."
France was not long behindhand in adding to his ever-growing list of
honours. He had the "Grand Officier" of the coveted "Legion" in 1885
after bringing safely to a conclusion the French Treaty of that year.
Undoubtedly this was one of the most picturesque and interesting
incidents with which he was ever connected, and perhaps it will not
come amiss to give some details of how it came about.
The trouble began over a disputed boundary--the Tonkin frontier, to
be exact. One side, the Chinese, wanted the Red River for the
dividing-line, would hear of nothing else, declared loudly that this
was the natural division; the other, France, was equally obstinate
for the older frontier between the State of Tonkin and China proper,
because this meant far more land for her. Meanwhile, in the disputed
area, Liu Yung Fuh, a very famous soldier of fortune--somewhat of an
Eastern d'Artagnan--roamed to and fro with his band of "Black Flags,"
threw in his lot with the Chinese, and made harassing raids on
the French side of the disputed border-line. Like the picador at a
bullfight, he maddened his enemy with dart-pricks, and the Chinese,
who, to continue the simile, had the toreador's part to play,
reaped the enmity he provoked. The French gave them battle at Pagoda
Anchorage, routed them utterly, and seized Formosa. This was the point
where the I.G. first came upon the scene. Once again he was to play
his old part of peacemaker. With the Nanking Viceroy Tseng Kuo Tseun
as collaborator, so to speak, he went to Shanghai to interview the
French Chargé d'Affaires, M. Patenotre, and see what could be done.
[Illustration: A SECRETARY GOING TO THE INSPECTORATE OFFICES DURING
THE RAINY SEASON.]
This Viceroy, by the way, was what we should call a self-made man;
that is, he had not risen to office by the usual route, which in China
is the way of a scholar. Undistinguished for any particular learning,
he had none of those literary degrees which the conservative Chinese
of those days prized above every other possession. He was, moreover,
quite conscious of his limitations and spoke of them to the I.G. _à
propos_ of the visit to Shanghai of two men who held the much-coveted
position of Literary Chancellors.
"It will not be possible for me to make a success of these
negotiations with the French," he exclaimed ruefully, "because
whatever I do these two men will find it out and disparage it in
every way they can. You see their view-point is that of distinguished
scholars, and they despise an unlettered man like me."
"But what would you say," replied the I.G., "if these two learned
gentlemen were made your colleagues in the business--if they were
ordered to work with you and share the responsibility?"
"Ah, that would be too good to be true," was the Viceroy's answer.
Nevertheless it did come true, because the I.G. telegraphed to Peking
about it, and shortly afterwards an Imperial Edict appointed them
to be associated with Tseng Kuo Tseun. Did ever any one find a more
diplomatic method of avoiding jealousies and closing the mouth of
criticism.
In government business even more than in private affairs the great
danger always is what the wise old Chicago pork-packer described as
"the weak mouths that let slip what they ought to retain." Indiscreet
talk has upset many a politician's apple-cart--even the legitimate
bumps on the road are not such serious obstacles. It almost spoiled
the Margary affair, it threatened the French Treaty no less seriously.
Again and again the two parties attempted to come to an agreement over
the troublesome boundary question; again and again they failed. And
why? Simply because the vexatious gossip that is the curse of small
communities interfered. And then to add to the existing complications
a Customs vessel, the _Fei Hoo_, was seized by the French as she was
landing stores for a lighthouse in Formosa. They would not let her go,
saying she had landed letters as well as stores. Perhaps she did--no
one can say--but contraband mail on board or not, she had important
duties to perform. All the lighthouses along that coast depended on
her for supplies, could not, in fact, function without her, and all
vessels of every nationality in China seas depended on those lights,
so her detention was worse than aggravating.
The I.G. explained this to Monsieur Patenotre and urged him to free
her. "_Ça, c'est l'affaire de l'amiral_," was the answer, and the
Admiral, when communicated with, refused to do anything. With many
regrets Monsieur Patenotre told the I.G. this, adding: "You'd better
go to Paris." He probably little thought that his advice would be
taken _au pied de la lettre_, but within an incredibly short time
the barren negotiations at Shanghai were abandoned, and the I.G. had
telegraphed at length explaining the whole position to his Resident
Secretary in London and directing him to go to Paris, see M. Jules
Ferry, then Premier and Minister for Foreign Affairs, and try to
settle something about the _Fei Hoo_ there. M. Ferry received him very
cordially, said he would be interested in hearing anything such an
authority as Sir Robert Hart might have to say, but, all civilities
aside, the matter rested with the Admiralty, and he would be obliged
to refer it to them.
Next day the Secretary, a certain Mr. Campbell, went again for his
answer and found it unfavourable, for the Admiralty was still in
that state of mind which we call firm when it occurs in ourselves,
obstinate when it occurs in others. M. Ferry personally was distressed
over the refusal. But what could he do beyond asking Mr. Campbell
politely if there was any other matter about which he would like to
speak? Here was an opportunity the I.G. had luckily foreseen--and
prepared to meet. Thanks to his foresight, Mr. Campbell was able to
take out of his pocket several long and carefully worded telegrams
giving a _résumé_ of the situation. They suggested a workable
compromise; it was adopted, and peace _pourparlers_ began once more.
The I.G.'s one stipulation on entering upon them was that they should
be kept absolutely secret. And this time they were. Except Prince
Ching and one Tsungli Yamên Minister, nobody knew, nobody even
guessed, that anything unusual was even "on the carpet," as the French
say; and in order to deepen the impression that no political
anxieties were darkening the horizon, Robert Hart embarked in private
theatricals--a thing he had never done before, or since--and played
Pillicoddy.
Alas, the path of treaties never did run smooth! When arrangements
were just on the point of being concluded the Court suddenly desired
to retract some of their promises, thinking too much had been given
away. This was a cruel blow to the I.G., who well knew that the French
would never agree to the proposed changes and that the painstaking
work of weeks would topple over like a house of cards. As for China's
position in case the Treaty fell through, the less said about that the
better.
Notwithstanding, the I.G. did speak of it, and forcibly, to Yamên
Ministers, who did not listen--not because they would not, but
because they dared not for fear of exceeding their powers and bringing
Imperial censure on their own heads. What the I.G. must do, said they,
was to send a telegram immediately to Paris and say the Treaty could
not be signed as it was. He promised to do this--what else could he
do?--and went home from the Yamên disheartened, discouraged, and in no
mood for work.
[Illustration: STABLES OF SIR ROBERT HART IN THE RAINY SEASON.]
A weaker man would have "gloomed" openly; he did nothing more
despairing than stroll into the office of one of his secretaries and
have some talk about indifferent matters. None the less it was an
unusual thing for him to do, as, whenever they had business together,
his secretaries came to him, and he must have been pushed to it by one
of those mysterious impulses that sometimes shape men's destinies. Was
it the same strange impulse that sent him over to the bookcase in the
corner of the room, that made him pick out, at random, and without
thinking what he was doing, a volume of the Chinese classics, and when
he opened it carelessly made his eye light on the sentence "_Kung Kwei
Yih Kwei_,"--literally, the "work wants another basket"? (The phrase
is part of one of Confucius' sayings.) "If a man wants to build a hill
so high," says the Sage, "he must not refuse it the last basketful of
earth."
Here was a direct answer to the I.G.'s own perplexity. Perhaps one
more effort and his work, too, might be successful. At any rate he
would keep back the fatal telegram for a day.
Next morning he went to the Yamên again. The first thing the Minister
said to him was, "Have you sent that telegram?" And they were all
anxiety till they had his reply, which, strange to say, they received
with profound sighs of relief, for once again the Court had changed
their minds--had come to see the folly of risking a break in the
negotiations--and the Ministers, who feared the I.G. had already
taken the step they had insisted on so firmly the day before, were
prodigiously relieved to find nothing definite had been done. Then,
when he told them the reason, how Confucius had guided China from his
grave, they were still more deeply impressed.
The telegram that the I.G. _did_ send that morning to his London agent
was "Sign the Treaty. But don't sign the 1st of April," he added,
for they were then in the last days of March. The sudden relief from
anxiety made him want a little joke--but he did not want it in the
Treaty. Unfortunately nobody appreciated the sally. His Resident
Secretary solemnly wrote on the telegram when he handed it to
the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, "Don't sign on the 1st of
April--_parce que c'est un jour néfasfe_--because it is an unlucky
day." Either as a Scotchman he deplored the unseemly frivolity, or he
thought the French could not appreciate a _poisson d'Avril_, and
so racked his brains for a serious reason to justify the I.G.'s
objection.
It so happened that the very day this message went to Paris, Sir Harry
Parkes's funeral took place. After a useful and eventful life he
died, as every one knows, at the summit of his ambitions while he was
British Minister in Peking. Just as the I.G. was going into the chapel
for the service, one of the Legation Secretaries drew him aside to
communicate a most important piece of news. A wire had come in only
a few minutes before offering "the appointment of Her Britannic
Majesty's Minister Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary at Peking
to Sir Robert Hart." To say the I.G. was surprised is not to say
enough. The offer, coming as it did under such solemn circumstances,
made an impression upon him too deep for words. Looking down at the
coffin half hidden in flowers, he could not help feeling the vanity
of earthly glories. "We brought nothing into this world, and it is
certain we can take nothing out," said the voice of the preacher. The
Envoy Extraordinary and the beggar travel towards the same goal, and
one is scarcely more indispensable than the other. Any pride he might
have had in the new dignity was most effectively taken out of him,
and I think that never in his life did the I.G. feel a deeper humility
than on this day when, invited to take the Legation, he stood the one
black-coated coated figure amid a blaze of diplomatic uniforms.
[Illustration: THE INSPECTORATE STREET BEFORE 1900.]
In the evening Mr. O'Conor (afterwards Sir Nicholas), the First
Secretary of the British Legation, came to dine with him and hear
his answer--which was that for the present he could not take up
the appointment as British Minister because of those Franco-Chinese
negotiations. So well had the secret been kept this time that O'Conor
had not the faintest idea anything important was going on; he heard
the news with amazement. Might he telegraph it home to his Government?
Yes, he might, provided he did not speak of the matter in Peking.
At the same time the I.G. begged that his appointment might not
be gazetted just then, for possibly the French would not care to
negotiate with a man about to become British Minister, and even
if they made no formal objection, the fact could not fail to have
considerable influence on Chinese affairs.
Accordingly the news was temporarily suppressed. But the I.G.
afterwards had the personal satisfaction of hearing through a lady
of the Court that when O'Conor's telegrams about the whole story were
laid before Queen Victoria, she said, "I am very glad that we shall
have for our next Minister in China the man who arranged such delicate
negotiations as these."
By all the laws of climax the incident should close here; no writer
would dream of dragging it out further, but unfortunately in real
life there is little respect for climaxes, and that vexatious Treaty
coquetted with her suitors once more. Really it was enough to make
anybody lose patience altogether. When the ground was clear at the
very last moment, how absurd that the Black Flags and the Chinese
should win a big victory over the French at Langson and that, in
consequence, there should have been an interpellation in the French
Senate causing the Jules Ferry Ministry to resign suddenly and leaving
the Treaty still unsigned.
The victory affected the Chinese no less seriously; in the twinkling
of an eye they were split into two parties. The military side, elated
with their success, was all for continuing the war ("Those we have
beaten once we shall beat again," said they), and the wiser councils
of the civil side only just carried the day, for, flushed as the
soldiers were with victory, it was not easy to make them see that
their success was but temporary, and the best, in fact the only thing,
for China to do was to hurry on with the Treaty.
Then the endless telegraphing began again. The I.G., by the way, had
spent Tls. 80,000 (over £10,000) on telegrams, a sum which, had the
Treaty failed, would not have been repaid easily. But it was too late
to stop now. Once more he wired instructions to his Secretary.
"You must face the jump. Go direct to the President and lay the matter
before him." In those days, when he was manoeuvring for a big success,
the I.G. sometimes risked much on the turn of a card.
Mr. Campbell went to President Grévy, and later to the Foreign
Minister de Freycinet. Things, as they seemed most desperate, took a
brighter turn; difficulties melted away, and at last, on the 4th of
April, 1885, M. Billot, afterwards Ambassador at Rome, was appointed
by the French Government to sign for France, and the Resident
Secretary of course signed for the Chinese. Thus the work was really
completed by those last basketfuls of earth, and the long months of
anxiety and strain brought to a happy conclusion much to everybody's
satisfaction.
Later, M. de Freycinet asked the I.G. to continue and arrange the
detail Treaty, as the first had been really little more than a
Protocol. The second went through without a hitch, and on June 9th Li
Hung Chang and M. Patenotre signed it at Tientsin.
Next day the I.G. had a telegram from London from Lord Granville
saying that the Gladstone Ministry was about to resign. "If your
appointment as British Minister at Peking is to be published before
the new Government under Lord Salisbury comes in, it must be gazetted
immediately." He was then able to answer. "Yes. Publish whenever you
please. The French Treaty was signed yesterday, June 9."
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE INSPECTORATE OF CUSTOMS BEFORE 1900.]
Sir Robert Hart planned to go into the Legation in August, on the
anniversary of his wedding day. Of course you may be sure he had
reported the matter to the Chinese and sent in his resignation in good
time. But, as they gave him no definite answer, there was nothing for
it but to remind them that he had agreed to go--and soon. Downcast
faces listened; a most unconsenting silence answered.
"Well, are you willing?" said he at last. "Is Her Majesty the
Empress-Dowager agreeable to receiving me as British Minister?"
"Oh, yes," they replied; "she would rather have you than any one else,
because, with your great knowledge of China, it will be very pleasant
to do business with you. Besides, you are an old friend of ours."
"Then is she willing to have me leave the Inspectorate?" continued
the I.G., still feeling a subtle sense of their dissatisfaction. They
brightened up at this. It was evidently the cue they had been looking
for. "That is the point," said one of the Ministers, plucking up
courage. "Her Majesty would much prefer that you stayed with us."
The upshot of it all was that he stayed; he felt that in the face
of the Yamên's remarks he could not treat such kind and considerate
employers as the Chinese otherwise. But one of the quaintest touches
in the whole affair was that his strongest private reason for holding
back, at first, from the splendid appointment as British Minister
was that he did not wish to tie himself for five years longer in
China--and yet after all he was to stay twenty-five willingly in the
land of his exile.