AN IMPORTANT MISSION TO HONGKONG AND MACAO--THE BEGINNING OF A
PRIVATE BAND--DECORATIONS, CHINESE AND FOREIGN--THE SIKKIM-THIBET
CONVENTION--FORMAL ESTABLISHMENT OF THE POST OFFICE--WAR LOANS
Robert Hart therefore went quietly on with his work in the Customs
(1885), setting personal ambitions calmly aside, and finding--let us
hope--his reward in the satisfaction which the Chinese and the service
generally expressed at his sacrifice of the British Government's
tempting offer.
The very year after it was made, an important piece of business,
safely, even brilliantly concluded, added greatly to his reputation.
This was the settlement of questions relating to the simultaneous
collection of duty and likin on opium--two of the burning questions of
the day in the south. China had long desired to levy both taxes at one
and the same time, but without an arrangement with the Hongkong and
Macao Governments this was impossible, as clever smugglers usually
contrived to hurry the drug safely into either British or Portuguese
territory before the Chinese authorities could lay their eyes, much
less levy their duties, upon it. Moreover, once it had crossed a
frontier, redress was impossible.
To remedy this unfortunate state of affairs, the I.G., together with
a certain Taotai, was sent on a mission. Great pourparlers were held
with the Hongkong authorities, who finally agreed to the concessions
he asked--provided the Macao authorities should do the same. Luckily
they did with readiness--even with enthusiasm--as they themselves were
anxious for a _quid pro quo_ from China.
The Portuguese position in Macao had always been a peculiar
one--unofficial is the word which best describes it--for though they
had quietly occupied the place since the far-away days of the Mings,
the Chinese had tolerated the strangers without recognizing them, only
now and then murdering one by way of protest. Here, then, was their
chance to obtain official status, and the Governor, a shrewd man,
seized it. The matter went through without a hitch; China, in addition
to getting her own way on the likin question, was given the right to
open her Custom Houses at Kowloon (Hongkong) and Lappa (Macao), while
Portugal on her side agreed never to sell or cede Macao to any other
Power without China's consent.
A slight passage-at-arms between the I.G. and a certain Chinese
official enlivened the proceedings, and threw an amusing sidelight on
Oriental methods. This man, when Robert Hart met him in Canton, said
with amazing frankness, "I had a spy in Hongkong who repeated to me
faithfully all that went on there, all that you did, all that you
said; but I had nobody in Macao. So will you please tell me what
happened in the latter place?"
When the I.G. refused, saying the business concerned only himself and
the Yamên, the fellow was first genuinely amazed, then righteously
indignant, finally secretly vindictive. He nursed the grievance for
years, and revenged himself at last by memorializing against the
I.G.'s famous Land Tax Scheme, which, weathering a storm of bitter
criticism, lived to enjoy great praise.
Once this Mission was over, the I.G. travelled no more. Things were so
well established by this time that there was no need for him to tour
the ports, and increasing work kept him ever closer to his desk in
Peking. Never was a man, I think, who lived a quieter or more orderly
life, or who had less recreation in his days. He went little
into society; when he did, his rare appearances were immensely
remarked--much as the passage of a comet might have been--and if he
made a visit, it was talked of with pride all through the community.
Indeed, the hostess who could say "The I.G. took tea with me to-day,"
was something of a heroine. He read much and wrote prodigiously,
sending out--and receiving too--the mail of a Prime Minister.
One extravagance, and only one, did he permit himself--I am thinking
of his private band. Yet even that he did not deliberately seek. The
idea came to him unexpectedly, put into his head by the Commissioner
of Customs at Tientsin, who wrote one day that he had among his
subordinates the very man for a bandmaster. Pathetic derelict, a
bandmaster without a band! Acting upon a sudden inspiration--perhaps
with some subtle intuition of the important part the music was to play
in the life of the community in after years, and of all the pleasure
it was to give--the I.G. sent money from his private purse to buy
instruments and music, though until that moment the idea of a band in
Peking had seemed infinitely remote if not utterly preposterous.
[Illustration: SIR ROBERT HART'S BAND IN THE EARLY 'NINETIES, BEFORE
IT HAD GROWN TO ITS PRESENT SIZE.
Playing on the lawn in front of his house.]
Some dozen promising young Chinese were at once collected and
initiated into the complicated mysteries of chords and keys. They
learned quickly and well--so well that within a year eight of them
were ready to come up to the capital and teach others. A doubtful
venture became an assured success. More and more players were added;
a promising barber, lured, perhaps, by the playing of his friend's
flute, abandoned his trade and set to work on the 'cello; or a
shoemaker, forsaking his last, devoted himself to the cornet. The
neighbouring tailor laid aside his needle; the carter left his cart,
bewitched away from everyday things by the music. It may be the smart
uniform had something to do with the popularity of the organization;
there is ever a fine line between art and vanity--but why dwell upon
an ignoble motive?
Suffice it to say, whether from pure conceit or better things, the
little company grew till it reached a score, and, under a Portuguese
bandmaster, touched a high level of perfection, playing both on brass
and strings with taste and spirit. The Tientsin branch flourished
equally well and became ultimately the Viceroy's band, and the mother
of bands innumerable all over the metropolitan province of Chihli. But
in reputation it never equalled what was known throughout China as the
"I.G.'s Own."
[Illustration: SIR ROBERT HART'S CHINESE BAND.]
In spring and autumn his musicians gave an open-air concert in the
Inspectorate garden every Wednesday afternoon. Of course, this was the
event of the week so far as society was concerned. Peking residents,
as well as many distinguished strangers who happened to be passing,
came to listen. The scene was invariably animated; ladies walked about
under the lilacs, which in April hung over the paths like soft clouds
of purple fog, displaying their newest toilettes; diplomats discussed
_la situation politique_; missionaries argued points of doctrine;
correspondents exchanged bits of news. All nationalities, classes and
creeds were represented in this cosmopolitan corner of the world, but
the lions and the lambs agreed tacitly to tolerate each other for the
sake of hearing the familiar tunes, warming as good old wine to the
hearts of exiles, and for the sake of seeing the mysterious man whose
advice, given, as it were, under his breath, shaped the course of
events in China.
He guessed well enough what brought the people, and would sometimes
remark laughingly, "They come; I know why they all come. It is just
to get a sight of the two curios of Peking, the I.G. and his queer
musicians."
Occasionally Chinese guests would mingle with the rest, lending with
their silken gowns and silken manners a touch of picturesqueness to
the scene. I can well remember seeing the famous Wu Ting Fang, whose
alert manner made him a general favourite. He prided himself upon
it--and rightly. "How old do you think I am?" he asked his host one
day. "Perhaps forty-five," was the reply. "Forty-five! What a guess!
Sixty-five would have been nearer--and I mean to live to be two
hundred."
He went on to explain carefully how this feat was to be accomplished.
The first thing, naturally, was diet. The man who would cheat time
should live on nuts like the squirrels (do they contrive to do it, I
wonder?). Under no conditions should he touch salt, lest a dangerous
precipitate form upon his bones, and he should begin and end each meal
with a teaspoonful of olive oil. So much for the physical side: the
mental is no less important. "I have hung scrolls in my bedroom," Wu
Ting Fang went on to explain, "with these sentences written upon them
in English and in Chinese: 'I am young, I am healthy, I am cheerful.'
Immediately I enter the room my eye falls upon these precepts. I
say to myself, Why, of course I am, and therefore I _am_." Was ever
simpler or saner method discovered for warding off old age?
Towards the end of 1889 the Chinese Government, desirous of paying the
I.G. a special compliment, chose to confer upon him an honour never
before given to any foreigner. Without precedent and without warning,
the Emperor issued an Imperial Decree raising him to the Chinese
equivalent of the peerage. Henceforth he belonged to the distinguished
company of Iron Hatted Dukes--at least not he but his ancestors
did, for this was no ordinary father-to-son patent of nobility. The
topsy-turvy honour reached backward instead of forward, diminishing
one rank with each succeeding generation.
The Chinese reason as follows: "If a man is wise or great or
successful, it is because his forbears were studious or temperate or
frugal. Therefore, when we give rewards, shall we not give them where
they are justly due?" Something might be said for a point of view
so diametrically opposed to our own, but the question of ethics has
nothing to do with my story.
The strange feature of it is that the very night before the Edict
appeared--when the I.G. had not the slightest hint of what was in
store for him--he dreamed of his father's father--a thing he had not
done for years. Dressed in a snuff-coloured suit, with knee-breeches
and shining shoe buckles, he appeared walking down the little street
of Portadown leaning heavily upon a blackthorn stick and murmuring
sadly, "Nobody cares for me, nobody takes any notice of me." Nobody,
indeed?
[Illustration: SIR ROBERT HART'S STABLES IN 1890.]
The very next evening at a dinner party at the French Legation some
one told the I.G. of the new honour, gazetted an hour before, and how
an Emperor, with a stroke of his Vermilion Pencil, had deprived the
ghost of a grievance.
Equally romantic was a coincidence that happened when the I.G. was
made a Baronet in 1893. The question of arms then coming up, he made
all possible enquiries concerning those which his family had a right
to use. Without doubt the Harts did bear arms in the days of William
of Orange, when they were granted to the famous Dutchman Captain van
Hardt who so distinguished himself at the Battle of the Boyne. But
after his death the family grew poor; the arms fell into disuse and
were forgotten so completely that one descendant thought they might
have been a hart rampant, while another declared they were a sheaf of
burning wheat.
Robert Hart was not the man to grope long in a fog of mystery. He
decided the question once and for all by submitting a blazon of his
own choice to the College of Heralds, and his design--three fleurs
de lis and a four-leaved shamrock--was sanctioned, as it had not been
previously applied for.
The search for the original arms was naturally given up then, but by
the merest accident they were ultimately found. Some member of
the family happening years afterwards to stroll through a very old
cemetery in Dublin, curiosity or idleness led him to examine the
tombstones. One in particular attracted his attention, perhaps because
it was more dilapidated and tumble-down than the rest. He gently
scraped the moss from the inscription and found that he had stumbled
on the long-forgotten tomb of Captain van Hardt, and underneath
the hero's name he found a coat-of-arms, half obliterated yet still
recognizable. It showed _three fleurs de lis and a four-leaved
shamrock_.
But it must not be imagined that Robert Hart was the man to rest on
his laurels or to regard honours as so many flags of truce entitling
him to draw out, even for a time, of the battle of work. From 1889
to 1903 he was deeply engaged on that very important business the
Sikkim-Thibet Convention. The Thibetans having crossed the border into
Sikkim, a State protected by the British, the British in return sent
an expedition into Thibet and, since there was trouble about the
frontier, refused to go out again. This was a very disagreeable
predicament for China. She turned, as usual, to the man who never
ceased labouring on her behalf, and, as usual, he rose to the
occasion.
Mr. James Hart, the I.G.'s brother, lately returned from delimitating
the Tonkin frontier, was sent posthaste to assist the Amban, the
Chinese Resident in Thibet. As a result of this wise choice, the
preliminary Treaty was put through by 1890, and the Chinese Customs
opened stations in Thibet. Three questions relative to trade, however,
remained to be settled, and for three long years negotiations over
these dragged on at Darjeeling.
Needless to say it was a slow and often wearisome business, with the
interest, to my mind, unfairly divided. On one side, the Thibetan
side, there was picturesqueness enough, though not without discomfort
too, for many a time the envoys must needs cross mountain-passes so
deep in snow that a hundred Thibetans marched ahead treading it down,
and not less often they must sleep in the rudest camps and eat the
unsavoury cuisine of the country. But on the other, the Peking side,
there was nothing but hard and dreary work, since every word that the
Chinese Commissioners said was telegraphed back to the I.G., and then
carefully discussed with the Yamên.
No sooner was quiet restored in Thibet than anxiety about war with
Japan began to agitate the Chinese capital. The air was as full of
rumours as a woman of whims. One day, happening to find himself beside
Baron Komura, the Japanese Chargé d'Affaires in Peking, the I.G. half
laughingly remarked, "So you are going to fight China after all?
I suppose you will win." "Oh, one never knows," was the Minister's
diplomatic reply. Strange to say the general opinion among men less
practical and less well-informed than the Inspector-General, was that
China would easily win a war against Japan--if it came to war--just as
later the unanimous opinion in the Far East was that if Russia fought
Japan, Russia must conquer.
But subsequent events proved Robert Hart right. China, after a brief
struggle, was severely beaten, and peace came as a relief. Then
immediately the question of loans to pay off the indemnity arose.
Two small war loans of Tls. 10,000,000 each were floated, it is true,
during the actual hostilities, but the first big loan of £16,000,000
was not arranged till so late as 1896.
The I.G. had the matter in hand; but unfortunately, just as he was
about to complete it, French and Russian banks offered to lend the sum
at a cheaper rate of interest, and so it was given to them. They also
agreed to float a second loan for £16,000,000. But at the last moment,
either because of some hitch in the minor arrangements, or because the
Chinese suddenly thought it might be unwise to put all their eggs in
one basket, they turned again to Robert Hart.
Late one night a Yamên messenger came clattering down the silent
streets, the sound of his pony's hoof-beats echoing from the compound
walls and arousing the whole quarter, there was a prodigious thumping
on the big outer gate before a sleeping watchman could be made to roll
out of his wadded quilts; but finally, after prolonged consultation,
the despatch was taken in to the I.G., the messenger calmed with tea
and a _pourboire_, and quiet once more restored. Next morning, early,
the I.G.'s cart was at the door--a vehicle, by the way, interesting
in itself, since it was chosen by Hung Ki, the man who liberated Sir
Harry Parkes--and Robert Hart started for the only shop in Peking,
ostensibly to buy toys for his children friends, as it was near
Christmas.
[Illustration: SIR ROBERT HART'S PRIVATE CART.
The wheels have knobs on them to strengthen them, there are no
springs. The carter always walks.]
In those days the Legations watched his movements very closely;
he wished them to hear that his little expedition was purely a
pleasurable one. No doubt they did, for not a soul knew that, when
he casually strolled into a bank near by, it was to quietly produce a
paper from his pocket and say, as one might say "Good day,"--"I have
here a loan agreement for £16,000,000, but I can only give it to you
on condition that you sign immediately."
Half an hour later the necessary signatures were on the document--the
whole great matter put through. Looking back upon the success, one
marvels at how he contrived it so rapidly that, once the news was out,
people caught their breath with astonishment. Instinctively he must
have felt it was a psychological moment when a man is required to take
responsibility--to presume even on his power, and that in a moment's
hesitation all might have been lost.
In 1896 came the formal establishment of the Imperial Chinese Post
Office--in itself the work of many a man's lifetime. Money had to
be found for the experiment from the Customs funds first, then
innumerable rules and regulations framed and experiments tried before
it became a practical working institution. The I.G.'s wonderful grasp
of detail stood him in good stead then, for a hundred details came
daily under his notice, and he was consulted on every possible
subject--from a design on a postage stamp to the opening of a
new department. To him, indeed, belongs the entire credit for the
designing and building of the greatest success of recent years in
China--a postal service, grown beyond the most sanguine hopes,
which not only pays its own way but is beginning to turn over some
revenue--indirectly, of course--to the Imperial Treasury.
[Illustration: THE IMPERIAL CHINESE POST OFFICE ENTRANCE ON A RAINY
DAY IN THE 'NINETIES]
Meanwhile the "five years longer" that he had privately set as the
term of his life in China when he refused to become British Minister
at Peking (1885) were long since passed, and five other years had
followed them, yet he had never found it possible to return to his
own country. Each spring he debated whether he might safely leave his
unfinished plans, which, ranging as they did over a vast number of
subjects, could not well be given half completed into other hands, and
each spring some new problem claimed his attention. In 1896, however,
he faced a harder decision than usual. The road was perhaps unusually
open--and yet he knew that, half hidden, there were obstacles waiting
to be met.
At this crisis of indecision he decided to do what he had so often
done before--consult the Bible. This had been a habit of his father's
before him; in fact, his whole family had asked guidance on every
venture they undertook, no matter how humble it might be, and the
training of his childhood was not outgrown. He accordingly took the
Bible lying on his desk and opened it at random one evening. There,
truly enough, was an answer clear and unmistakable in the very
first verse his eye lighted upon--Acts xxvii. 31: "Paul said to the
centurion and to the soldiers, Except these abide in the ship, ye
cannot be saved." It immediately decided him to remain in China, and
he suffered no more from perplexity or indecision.
Robert Hart was indeed deeply religious. Unlike so many men who
have passed their lives in the East, he never absorbed any Eastern
fatalism, nor did the lamp of his faith ever burn dimly because he
mixed with men of other and older creeds. The Christian ideal he
always considered the highest in the world; but once, when trying to
live up to it, he was brought to confusion, though not through any
fault of his own.
One day, as he was leaving the gate of a certain mission where he
had been to pay a call, a Chinese of the poorer classes, unkempt and
dirty, came and threw an arm about his shoulders, saying, "I see you
are also coming away from the mission, so we are brothers in Christ. I
will accompany you on your way."
The I.G. afterwards confessed that his first feeling was one of
irritation at the man's familiarity--which amounted almost to
impertinence--and his second, disgust at the grimy hand so near his
collar. To summarily shake it off was a natural instinct. But, when he
thought a moment, he clearly saw the absurdity of professing a creed
of universal brotherhood and then, as soon as some one attempted
brotherly familiarity, of repulsing him. Therefore he suffered the
man's arm to remain as far as the corner of the big street, where he
made a determined effort to get free, saying, "My way lies in this
direction," and attempting to slip off before his companion could see
which point of the compass "this" was.
But the fellow-Christian was observant and consistent. "Oh, I will
come with you," he said, in the tone of one doing a kindness, so the
I.G. could do nothing but resign himself to his fate. Baronet and
coolie made a triumphal progress down Legation Street, much to the
amusement of the sentries on guard, and by the time he reached his own
door the former felt a few shamefaced doubts about the advisability of
mission methods which inculcated the equality of man irrespective of
colour, class, and cleanliness.
1899 saw the Germans take possession of Kiaochow, and the question of
establishing a branch of the Chinese Customs there was discussed and
settled, China finally obtaining the right to open her own Kiaochow
Custom House, with a German staff of her own employees.
This was the last important international work he undertook before
the memorable Siege in 1900. Already the first mutterings of the storm
sounded. The first Boxers appeared in Shantung--a little cloud
of fanatics scarcely bigger than a man's hand. But soon they were
spreading over all the north of China, and even spilling into the
metropolitan province of Chihli itself.
[Illustration: A GARDEN PARTY GIVEN BY SIR ROBERT HART TO GOVERNOR
TRÜPPEL (OF KIAOCHOW) AND PARTY.]