SOME QUIET YEARS--A CHANGE OF MASTERS--INSOMNIA--A FAREWELL
AUDIENCE--AN HONOUR AND ITS ADVERTISEMENT--AH FONG AND
OTHERS--DEPARTURE FROM PEKING--"A SMALL, INSIGNIFICANT IRISHMAN"
With the conclusion of the Peking Congress a new era began in the old
capital. One could scarcely expect the effects of the Siege and its
terrible aftermath to wear off at once. It was long indeed before the
city resumed anything like a normal appearance, before people dared to
come creeping back to their ruined shops and houses. Some, alas! found
they had nothing to creep back to, not even ruins--for the Legations,
determined never to be caught in the same trap a second time,
insisted upon reserving a big area for themselves and fortifying
it. Unfortunately those who had borne least of the heat of the day
received the largest rewards in the newly planned Quarter, and grabbed
most greedily and with least justice. Consideration for Chinese
sentiments at such a time would have been almost more than human, but
revenge carried to the point of making the I.G., because he was an
employee of the Chinese Government, suffer for the mistakes of that
Government, seems both unnecessary and ungenerous. This, however, was
just what happened. His fine garden was ruthlessly chopped to pieces
in the rearrangement, and though he did not actually lose ground, the
long walk around the house was spoiled and he found a frowning wall
five feet from his back windows. Moreover there was nothing he could
do to prevent these things--the opinions of critics who accused him
of weakness notwithstanding. These critics wanted him to shout his
grievances aloud, to make them audible above the din of that noisy
time. But what hope had he of being heard? The Chinese officials
_could_ not listen and his own countrymen _would_ not, so where was he
to turn?
Nothing remained for it but to build his house on the old
foundations--an economical plan--and try to forget about the wall near
the back windows. The garden also was set in order. As the Psalmist
says, "The wilderness was made to blossom," for wilderness it was.
Judging from appearances, Chinese soldiers must have encamped there.
They left their rice-bowls in the path and their fans under the trees.
Probably they stayed some days and looted at leisure, then disappeared
as suddenly as they had come, after a sharp struggle with a company
of Boxers, for two of these patriots in full regalia--red sashes and
rusty swords--lay dead in the long grass. Poor patriots, they owed
their quiet graves under a barbarian's lawn to a barbarian's kindness.
I wonder if their ghosts have a sense of humour, and if they ever
chuckle a little over the trick Fate played on them when they were
helpless?
[Illustration]
Once established again in his new-old quarters, the I.G. went back
to his former routine of life. The band-boys, scattered by the Siege,
returned, one having become, all of a sudden, a hero.
It happened during the days immediately following the Relief, when the
prostrate city was given up to plunderers. A company of soldiers
chose to break into a big dwelling-house, and the Chinese inhabitants
scampered--men and women--in wild terror. Then suddenly, in the midst
of the confusion, a bugle call rang loud and clear on the air. The
European soldiers, recognizing the "Retreat" and fearing a superior
force was about to descend on them, stood not on the order of their
going, but left at once. Yet it was no superior force after all. A
single man by his presence of mind saved the situation--and that man
was the I.G.'s best cornet player. Afterwards, I remember, he used to
be pointed out to strangers at garden parties, and he had quite a deal
of notoriety before he and his gallantry were forgotten in the daily
round of commonplace happenings.
Taking into consideration the great shock of 1900, it is wonderful how
the I.G. could remain unaltered in all his habits, could be so unmoved
by the changes taking place around him. The Chinese officials, for
instance--who suddenly became as anxious for Western comforts as they
had hitherto detested them--drove over modernized roads in carriages;
he clung to his old-fashioned sedan chair. The majority of the
besieged bought--or otherwise acquired loot; he never spent a penny on
it, and never entered what the looters euphemistically liked to call
"deserted houses."
[Illustration: ANOTHER WINTER VIEW OF SIR ROBERT HART'S GARDEN,
PEKING.]
The whole community took advantage of the opening of the Temple of
Heaven and the Temple of Agriculture, fine parks free from dust and
the noise of the city; he never entered either. Nor at a time when the
whole world was discussing the Winter Palace and the Forbidden City,
did he consider that the dictates of good breeding permitted him to go
where the rightful owners would have refused him entrance. He took his
outings as usual either in his own garden or on the city wall, from
which he could watch the slow rebuilding of the Legation Quarter, a
perfect _salade Russe_ of architecture, with German gables, classic
Venetian gateways and Flemish turrets jostling one another.
This calm life continued for four peaceful years. Then he was startled
again by a bolt from the blue. The Inspectorate of Customs was
transferred by Imperial Edict from the Wai-Wu-Pu to the Shui-Wu-Ch'u,
a Board specially created to control it.
The real meaning of the change was not easy to fathom, but everybody
seized the opportunity to talk at once--all the newspapers and the
correspondents and the political experts; to criticize, to prophesy,
to predict, to shake their heads--all but one man, the man most
concerned. And he said nothing; he listened while the others
authoritatively stated what he must think, what he did think, and what
he would think later. To tell the truth he thought less of his own
position, the prestige of which was undoubtedly affected by a move
that turned him from a semi-political agent into a simple departmental
head, than he did of the future of his service. Consequently, at a
juncture when he had the best excuse for deserting a post which had
partially deserted him, he remained to reassure outsiders as well
as employees and to prove that radical as the Edict seemed, its real
meaning was not half so disturbing as it appeared.
[Illustration: TING'RH, OR CHINESE PAVILION, IN SIR ROBERT HART'S
GARDEN, PEKING.]
Anxiety could never have driven him away; it took insomnia to make him
apply for the leave he so greatly needed. His brain, like Gladstone's,
was overtaxed; the problems which he had so long considered gave him
no rest, and by night as well as by day his too active mind thought
and planned and considered. Rest was therefore imperative,
and fortunately his leave was granted. At the same time the
Empress-Dowager commanded him to an Audience. It was not the first by
any means, as he had for the last few years always gone to the Palace
at the Chinese New Year. But as it was typical of the others, a few
words of description may not come amiss. He was off early in the
morning as usual, surrounded by Palace officials mounted on shaggy
ponies who trotted beside his sedan chair while their riders with
shrieks and yells cleared a way for the cavalcade. The police guards
popped out of their stations to salute him--I can tell you that hour's
journey across the city was something in the nature of a triumphal
progress, what with traffic airily waved aside and sentries and
soldier-police presenting arms! At the Palace gates he alighted, and
was met by other officials, bigger and grander, and conducted to
the Hall of Audience. A considerable distance still remained to
be covered; courtyard after courtyard had to be traversed and an
artificial lake crossed in a barge before the Hall itself was reached
and--an official having gone ahead and peeped in and announced
his presence informally--he was shown into the presence of Their
Majesties. Side by side on a little raised platform sat the Emperor
and the Empress-Dowager, each with a table before them. He might have
noticed that there were flowers on the Empress's table and none on the
Emperor's, but that otherwise the room was not particularly large or
imposing and very bare--without chairs, without cupboards, without
ornamentation of any kind except the beautiful painting on the ceiling
and the fine woodcarving on the long doors. But he had a speech
to make--absorbing occupation--and as soon as it was over the
Empress-Dowager was talking to him quite simply about his travels and
asking questions about London. She shyly confessed that since her one
and only train journey--from Si-an in 1900--she had conceived a great
liking for travel and enjoyed seeing strange sights. Then she wished
him a happy voyage and concluded by remarking: "We have chosen to
give you some little keepsakes," using the word meaning a "personal
souvenir" rather than a formal and perfunctory "present." It was
a moment of natural excitement, and the I.G., dumb with emotion,
received the intimation in unflattering silence. "Thank," said the
Minister who presented him, in agonized tones; and while he stammered
out a simple "Thank you," devoid of any conventional flourishes, the
Minister went down on his knees and put his gratitude prettily.
The interview was then closed; Emperor and Empress both assumed a
Buddha-like impassivity of expression and allowed the I.G. to back
just as if they were entirely oblivious of his presence. Such is
the Chinese method of differentiating between the friend and the
sovereign.
[Illustration: SIR ROBERT HART AND HIS STAFF (FOREIGN AND CHINESE)
PEKING 1902.]
In the waiting-room he told his _faux pas_ to the Ministers, either
coming from or going into the Audience Hall, and expressed his
annoyance that the proper formula for returning thanks had slipped his
mind when it did. They laughed heartily over the incident, and for his
comfort told him the story of a certain man called Kwei Hsin, who had
an even worse experience. Some time in the late 'seventies he returned
from an audience pulling his beard, which was long and thin. He seemed
visibly annoyed about something.
"What has happened?" enquired his colleagues anxiously.
[Illustration: SIR ROBERT HART WISHING MISS ROOSEVELT "BON VOYAGE" ON
HER DEPARTURE FROM PEKING, SEPTEMBER 16, 1906
On the left is admiral Hu Yü Fen]
"Well," said he, "the Emperor (then little more than a child) asked me
a question to-day which I could not answer."
"And what was it?" Their minds immediately flew to knotty points
at issue. Was it about the finances of the provinces? Could it be a
Censor had denounced some one and enquiries were to be made?
"He asked me," said Kwei Hsin slowly, "if I slept with my beard under
the quilt or outside it, and for the life of me I could not remember,
so I stood there dumb as a fish."
Two or three days after the audience the "souvenirs" were brought to
the I.G. by the Palace servants. In addition, they gave him a little
surprise of their own. He found them pasting a big red placard on his
front gate. It was their way of advertising his newest honour--the
Presidency of a Board--and has had the sanction of society in China
since the Flood. What if it is a little embarrassing! It would be
worse for the newly promoted to tell his friends about his step up in
the world himself. By this method he is spared the trouble, and while
he theoretically knows nothing about it, the Imperial servants
take this delicate means of making the honour known, receiving a
substantial tip for their thoughtfulness.
But the I.G., whose modesty was entirely genuine instead of
counterfeit, was shocked at seeing himself lauded in three-inch black
characters on a flaring red ground, and driven in desperation to
explain that while his gratitude was unbounded, he did not want
an admiring crowd collected on his threshold. So, much to the
disappointment of his servants, who in China feel that their master's
glory reflects upon themselves, the announcement was taken down.
Whoever says "No man can be a hero to his own valet" is wrong, for
the I.G. was undoubtedly a hero to his whole household--modesty
notwithstanding. Most of his servants remained with him for thirty
years, and at the end one and all gave him an excellent "character."
"We have found you a very satisfactory master," said they--which
sounds strange to us, but is the Chinese way of doing things. No
wonder they said so. He had such a horror of asking too much from
those he employed that he was far too lenient with them. His ear
was too attentive to their stories, his purse too open to their
borrowings. When their relatives died--and in China each man has an
army of them, including duplicate mothers and grandmothers--boys,
cooks, coolies and bandsmen rushed to "borrow" from him. I cannot
remember hearing that one ever came to repay.
At last this fact struck even the I.G., long-suffering though he
was. "Why do you not ask me to give you this amount?" he mildly
expostulated to the next man who came pleading for the funeral
expenses of his brother's son's wife.
"Oh," replied the fellow, pained and grieved at his master's want
of understanding, "I couldn't do that. If I did I should lose
'face'"--that is, prestige and standing in the community. On such a
slender thread hangs self-respect in the Far East.
The old butler, a Cantonese with the manner of a courtier, was even
more privileged than the rest--and for the best of reasons. He
had been with his master for almost half a century. His memory was
wonderful, and sometimes on winter nights when he had helped to
serve the I.G.'s solitary and frugal dinner, he would presume on his
position, linger behind the other servants, and call up again to the
I.G.'s mind the night in 1863--just such a bitter night as this, with
just such a howling wind--when together they had gone to meet Gordon,
and the sampan taking them ashore had capsized, throwing them both
into the icy water.
Occasionally then the I.G. would retaliate with reminiscences of Ah
Fong making the Grand Tour of Europe with him in 1878--how he
kissed his hands to the winning French chambermaids, and called out
"Allewalla, Allewalla!" ("Au revoir, au revoir!"), or how he had
answered the horrified ladies of Ireland who inquired about his
duties,--"Morning time my brush master's clothes, night time my bring
he brandy and water."
[Illustration: FRONT DOOR OF SIR ROBERT HART'S HOUSE, PEKING]
In this age of uninterested or inanimate "helps," a servitor like Ah
Fong is about as rare as an archaeopteryx. Devotion and loyalty such
as his are fast dying out of the world, but they make a pretty picture
when one does find them, and I like to tell how the old servant
grieved at the thought of separation from one who represented his
whole horizon.
The I.G., too, must have felt some sentiment at leaving the faces
to which he was accustomed, the house which had grown dear in almost
thirty years of uninterrupted solitude. It is just these associations
which are most intangible, which sound most trivial set down in black
and white, that often take the strongest hold upon us. Habit, the
little old dame, creeps in one day, sits by our fire, amuses us,
comforts us, occupies us, and--before we know it--we feel a wrench if
we are obliged to move away.
Nevertheless we must all move some time or another. Everybody
does--even the I.G., whose going had been so often prophesied and
again so often contradicted that he had come to be regarded as the one
fixed star twinkling unselfishly in the heaven of duty.
The morning of his going, I remember, broke fine and clear. The sky
was beautifully blue, like an inverted turquoise bowl. The little
railway station must have been startled half out of its wits by all
the people flocking in. Such a thing in all its history had never
happened before. Under the low grey roof trooped guards of honour
sent by every nationality--all for the sake of one man who was only a
civilian, and nothing but a private individual. There were this
man's own nationals in the central position--a company of splendid
Highlanders with pipers, and stretching away down the platform there
were American marines, Italian sailors, Dutch marines and Japanese
soldiers. And, of course, there were Chinese, no less than three
detachments of them, looking very well in their new khaki uniforms.
Two of the detachments had brought their bands, and the I.G.'s own
band had come of its own accord to play "Auld Lang Syne."
[Illustration: FRONT VIEW OF SIR ROBERT HART'S HOUSE.
With his butler, Ah Fong, who served him for almost half a century.]
As the I.G. stepped from his sedan chair at the end of the platform
his face wore an expression of bewilderment, but only for a moment.
Then he turned to the commanding officer, and saying "I am ready,"
walked steadily down the lines of saluting troops while the bands all
played "Home, Sweet Home." Just as quietly he said good-bye to the
host of Chinese officials with whom he had been associated so long;
then turned to the Europeans whom he had known so well, to all of
whom he had done so many kindnesses, and none of whom could say "bon
voyage" dry-eyed, while camera fiends "snapped" him as he shook hands
and said last good-byes. At last he stepped on board the train and
slowly drew away from the crowd, bowing again and again in his modest
way.
So far as his work was concerned he could go without regrets. He left
his career behind him with no frayed edges that could tangle. He had
fulfilled all his ambitions. He had "bought back Kilmoriarty and got a
title too," as he promised his aunt he would while still a boy in his
teens. He had collected an almost unprecedented number of honours,
been decorated no less than twenty-four times, eight, however, being
promotions in the Orders. But still that left him sixteen to wear, and
of those sixteen, thirteen were Grand Crosses. As a matter of fact he
never wore any of them when he could help it, and never more than one
at a time. "I do not want to look like a Christmas tree," he would say
in joke. This was his humility again.
He certainly was humble, and he looked so. There was never the
slightest pomp or pride about him. "A small, insignificant Irishman,"
so some one has described him. Is he small? I dare say he is, but
one never notices it. One notices only the long face still further
lengthened by a beard, the domed forehead, the bright eyes, very
inscrutable usually, very sympathetic when he chooses to make them
so; and when he speaks, a soft voice, quiet and even-toned but often
indistinct. Not given to demonstrativeness, he appears the same under
all conditions--silent when depressed, silent too when cheerful; he
may smile, but he will never laugh outright--unless called upon in
society to make a special effort to amuse somebody. Then he does it,
as he does all he sets out to do, well.
But usually he allows other people to instruct him, listening
patiently and giving so little hint of what he himself thinks that few
people know him intimately and the general public stands a little
in awe of him. What more natural? His work has been a hard
disciplinarian, a relentless grudger of little joys; and, as is well
known, those who make history have little time to make friends.
Yet on the whole his success has been cheap as successes go. True he
worked prodigiously--how he did work, straight on from his University
days!--but none of his labours have been hopelessly dull, while some
have been exceptionally interesting, and all have been flavoured with
a pinch of romance. Further, he has had the satisfaction of filling
his years about twice as full as other people's--of helping more men
than most of his neighbours, and of gaining the world's respect and
admiration.
How has he done it? Shall I tell you the secret--or what he often
laughingly said was the secret? It lies hidden in a verse which he
wrote in his fantastic hand on the desk at which he stood for so many
years with unremitting industry. First came two dates "1854--1908,"
and then these lines:
"If thou hast yesterday thy duty done,
And thereby cleared firm footing for to-day,
Whatever clouds may dark to-morrow's sun,
Thou shalt not miss thy solitary way."
THE END