{151}
_The start for Jehol--Tuan--A Peking cart--Chinese roads--A great
highway--Chances of camping out--“Room for ten thousand merchant
guests”--Human occupancy--Dust of ages--Eyes at the window--Catering for
the journey--The Chinese chicken, minced._
|There were two places that I particularly wanted to go to when I could
make up my mind to tear myself away from the charms of Peking. One
was the Tungling, or Eastern Tombs, the tombs where the great
Empress-Dowager and most of the Manchu Emperors were buried, and Jehol,
the Hunting Palace of the Manchus, away to the north in Inner Mongolia,
or on the outermost edge of the Province of Chihli, for boundaries are
vague things in that out-of-the-way part of the world. I wondered if
I could combine them both if instead of coming back to Peking after
visiting the tombs I might make my way over the mountains to Jehol. With
that end in view I instituted inquiries, only to find that while many
people knew a man, or had heard of several men who had been, I never
struck the knowledgeable man himself. The only thing was to start out on
my own account, and I knew then I should soon arrive at the difficulties
to be overcome, not the least of them was two hundred {152}and eighty
miles in a Peking cart. The only drawback to that arrangement was that
if I didn't like the difficulties when I did meet them, there could be
no drawing back. They would have to be faced.
Accordingly I engaged a servant with a rudimentary knowledge of English.
When the matter we spoke of was of no importance, such as my dinner, I
could generally understand him, when it was of importance, such as
the difficulties of the way, I could not, but I guessed, or the events
themselves as they unfolded became explanatory. This gentleman was a
small person with noble views on the subject of squeeze, as it pertained
to Missie's servant, and he wore on state occasions a long black coat of
brocaded silk, slit at the sides, and on all occasions the short
hairs that fringed the shaven front of his head stood up like a
black horsehair halo. He was badly pock-marked, very cheerful, and an
excellent servant, engineering me over difficulties so well that I had
to forgive him the squeeze, though in small matters I was occasionally
made aware I was paying not double the price, but seven times what it
ought to have been. However one buys one's experience. He was my first
servant and I paid him thirty dollars a month, so I was squeezed on that
basis. A six months' stay in China convinced me I could get as good a
servant for fifteen dollars a month, and feel he was well paid.
His name was Tuan, pronounced as if it began with a “D,” and he engaged
for me two Peking carts with a driver each, and two mules apiece. One
was for myself and some of my luggage, the other took {153}my servant,
my humble kitchen utensils, and the rest of my baggage; and one Sunday
morning in May, it is hardly necessary to say it was sunny, because a
dull morning in May in Northern China is an exception hailed with joy,
the carts appeared at the door of the “Wagons Lits,” and we were ready
to start. At least everything was ready but me. I ached in every limb,
and felt sure that I was just beginning an attack of influenza. What was
to be done? I longed with a great longing for my peaceful bed. I did not
want to go venturing forth into the, to me, unknown wilds of China, but
I had engaged those carts at the rate of seven dollars a day for the
two, and I felt that I really could not afford to linger. Possibly the
fresh air might do me good. At any rate, I reflected thankfully, as I
climbed into the foremost cart, no active exertion was required of me.
And that only shows how remarkably little I knew about a Peking cart.
A man and a girl of my acquaintance rose up early in the morning to
accompany me the first ten miles on donkeys, we had tiffin together
beneath the shade of some pine-trees in a graveyard, and then they
wished me good-bye, and I started off with the comfortable feeling that
arises from the parting good wishes of kind friends.
Now a Peking cart is a very venerable mode of progression. When our
ancestors were lightly dressed in woad, and had no conception of any
wheeled vehicle, the Chinese lady was paying her calls sitting in the
back of a Peking cart, the seat of honour under the tilt, well out of
the sight of the passers-by, while-her servant sat in front, the place
of comfort, if such a word can be applied to anything {154}pertaining to
a Peking cart, for in spite of its long and aristocratic record if there
is any mode of progression more wearying and uncomfortable I have not
met it. It is simply a springless board set on a couple of wheels with a
wagon tilt of blue cotton, if you are not imperial, over it, and a place
for heavy luggage behind. The Chinaman sits on the floor and does
not seem to mind, but the ordinary Westerner, such as I am, packs his
bedding and all the cushions he can raise around him, and then resigns
himself to his fate. It has one advantage people will tell you, it has
nothing to break in it, but there are moments when it would be a mighty
relief if something did break, for if the woodwork holds together, as it
tosses you from side to side, you yourself are one sore, bruised mass.
No, I cannot recommend a Peking cart, even on the smoothest road.
And the roads in China are not smooth. We all know the description of
the snakes in Ireland, “There are no snakes,” and if in the same manner
could be described the roads in China, blessed would the roads in China
be, but as China is a densely populated country there are so-called
roads, upon which the people move about, but I have seldom met one that
was any better than the surrounding country, and very, very often on
this journey did I meet roads where it was ease and luxury to move off
them on to the neighbouring ploughed field. The receipt for a road there
in the north seems to be: Take a piece of the country that is really too
bad to plough or to use for any agricultural purposes whatever, that
a mountain torrent, in fact, has given up as too much for the water,
{155}upset a stone wall over it, a stone wall with good large stones
in it, take care they never for a moment lie evenly, and you have your
road.
[Illustration 0233]
Leaving Peking for the Eastern Tombs you go for the first two or three
hours along a paved way of magnificent proportions, planned and laid out
as a great highway should be. The great stones with which it is paved
were probably put there by slave labour, how many hundred years ago I
do not know, but the blocks are uneven now, some of them are gone
altogether, though how a huge block of stone could possibly disappear
passes my understanding, and whenever the carter could, he took the cart
down beside the road, where at least the dust made a cushion for the
nail-studded wheels, and the jarring and the jolting were not quite so
terrible.
It takes as long to get beyond the environs of Peking in a cart as it
does to get out of London in a motor-car. First we passed through the
Babylonish gate, and the great walls were behind us, then, outside the
city, all looking dusty, dirty, and khaki-coloured in the brilliant
sunshine, were numerous small houses, and the wayside was lined with
booths on which were things for sale, green vegetables and salads
looking inviting, if I could have forgotten the danger of enteric,
unappetising-looking meat, bones, the backbones of sheep from which
all flesh had been taken, eggs, piles of cakes and small pies, shoes,
clothes, samovars, everything a poor man in a primitive community can
possibly require, and along the roadway came an endless array of people,
clad for the most part in blue cotton, men walking, men with loads slung
from a {156}bamboo across their shoulders, donkeys laden with baskets,
with sacks of grain, with fat Chinese on their backs, with small-footed
women being transported from one place to another; there were Peking
carts, there were mules, there were ponies; and this busy throng is
almost the same as it was a couple of thousand years ago. I wondered;
could I have taken a peep at the outskirts of London in the days of
Elizabeth of happy memory, would it not have been like this? But no.
The sky here is bright and clear, the sunshine hot, and the faces of
the moving crowd are yellow and oriental. This crowd is like the men who
toiled round the quarries of Babylon or Nineveh, and it is perhaps more
satisfied with itself and its position in the universe than any like
company of people anywhere in the world. That impression was forced upon
me as I stayed in Peking, it grew and grew as I got farther away from
the great city, and out into the country.
But it was a long, long while before I could feel I was really in
the country. There was the khaki-coloured land, there were the
khaki-coloured houses built of mud apparently, with graceful, tiled
roofs, and blue-clad people everywhere, and everywhere at work. Always
the fields were most beautifully tilled, there were no fences, the
Chinese is too civilised to need a fence, and when you see stone walls
it is only because, since they can't be dropped off the planet into
space, the stones must be disposed of somehow, here and there the
kaoliang was coming up like young wheat, in vivid green patches that
were a relief from the general dust, and occasionally there were
trees, willow or poplar or fir, delightful to look upon, that marked a
graveyard, {157}and then, just as I was beginning to hope I was out in
the country, a walled town would loom up.
And in the dusk of the evening we stopped and met for the first time the
discomforts of a Chinese inn.
We had started rather late, and I had spent so much time bidding
farewell to my friends, that we did not reach the town we had intended
to, but put up at a small inn in a small hamlet. This, my first inn was,
like most Chinese inns, a line of one-storied buildings, built round the
four sides of a large courtyard. Mixed up with the rooms were the
stalls for the beasts, the mules and the little grey donkeys, with
an occasional pony or two, and the courtyard was dotted with stone or
wooden mangers. In the pleasant May weather there was no need to put all
the beasts under cover, and there were so many travellers there was not
room in the stalls for all the beasts.
It was all wonderfully Eastern. I remembered, I could not but remember,
how once there arrived at such an inn a little company, weary and tired,
and “so it was, that while they were there, the days were accomplished
that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her first-born son,
and wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger: because
there was no room for them in the inn.”
I thought of that little company as the Peking cart jolted over the step
that is on the threshold of all Chinese doors--no one considers comfort
in China, what is a jolt more or less, a Peking cart will not break--and
I found myself in the courtyard, and a trestle was brought for me to get
down from {158}the cart. I might have jumped, I suppose, but one hundred
li, about thirty miles, had left me stiff and aching in every limb. My
head ached too with the influenza, and when I inspected the room offered
for my accommodation, I only wished drearily that there had been no room
in this particular inn, and that I might have slept out in the open.
But that first day as I went across the plain, that while there were no
hills upon it rose slowly towards the hills, I realised that in China,
there is not the charm of the open road, you may not sleep under the
sky, you must put up at an inn, you would as soon think of camping
out in one of the suburbs of London. Indeed you might easily find more
suitable places for camping about Surbiton or Richmond than you would
among the sterile hills or cultivated valley bottoms of Northern China.
I hoped against hope for three days. I had a comfortable sleeping-bag
and the nights were fine, it seemed it would be so simple a thing to
camp a little off the roadside, even though I had no tent, and that
first night, when I smelled the smell of the rooms, rank and abominable,
and reeking of human occupancy, I envied my mules, and said that as I
got farther into the country I could certainly sleep outside.
“Room for ten thousand merchant guests,” said the innkeeper in
characters of black on red paper over his door, and unless those
merchants were very small indeed, I am sure I don't know where he
proposed to put them. I remembered with a shudder, that one man of my
acquaintance had said: “What I cannot stand is the perpetual tramp,
{159}tramp, all night,” and I had my suspicions that the guests were
small on this occasion, and I feared lest they were going to be catered
for. There were also notices in the effective red and black that the
landlord would not be responsible for any valuables not confided to his
care, and exhorting the guests to be careful of fire. And it seemed to
me, as I looked at the rotting thatch and the dubious grey walls, that
a fire in this inn would be the very best thing that could happen to it.
You see I was specially particular this first night. I thought the next
inn might be better. I had a good deal to learn. “The tiger from the
Eastern Hills and the tiger from the Western Hills,” says the Chinese
proverb, “are both the same.” So everywhere a Chinese inn is about as
bad as it can be. They are mostly used by carters, and well-to-do people
always go to temples, when they are available. There wasn't a temple
about here, and I didn't know I could have lodged there had there been
one, so I resigned myself to the inevitable, and wondered with all the
energy that was left in me what adverse fate had set me down here. I
might have gone back, of course. In a way I was my own mistress; but
after all, we none of us own ourselves in this world. I had a book
to write, and material for that book was not to be got by staying
comfortably in the Wagons Lits Hotel, and therefore I very reluctantly
peeped into a room from which clouds of dust were issuing, and which
smelt worse than any place I had ever before thought of using as
a bed-chamber and dining-room combined. The dust was because I had
impressed upon the valued Tuan that I must have a clean room, so he had
importantly turned {160}two coolies on to stir up the dust of ages, a
thousand years at least, I should say, there seemed no end to it, and I
wondered, in addition to the merchant guests, what awful microbes were
being wakened out of their long sleep. Left alone, they might have been
buried so deep that they might not have come nigh me; but he was giving
them all a chance. After all it was only fair, a foreign woman did not
visit a Chinese inn every day of the week. After more dust than I had
ever seen before all at once, had come out of that room, I instructed
water to be brought and poured on things in general, and, when the
turmoil had quieted down a little, I went in and inspected my quarters.
They all bear a strong family resemblance to one another, the rooms of
these Chinese inns. I always tried to get one that opened directly on
to the courtyard, as giving more chance of air. The Chinese, as a rule,
have not much use for fresh air. Tuan, had he had his way, would have
shut the door fast, as being more correct and private, and then I
should have been in an hermetically sealed room, lighted all along the
courtyard side by a most dainty latticework window covered with white
tissue paper, or rather tissue paper that had once been white. It had
been well-smoked during the winter, and a considerable quantity of the
dust that had been so industriously stirred up, had lodged there. But
air I must have, so I had the paper stripped off from the top of the
window as far down as my desire for privacy would allow. Below, the more
daring spirits, who had assembled to see the foreign woman, wetted their
fingers and poked them softly through the bottom part of the window;
and then {161}an eye appeared, so that it really seemed at first as if
I might as well have been comfortable and had all the paper off. I went
outside, and let it plainly be seen that I was very angry indeed, and
then Tuan, who had a great idea of my dignity, or rather of his dignity,
which was as nothing if I was of no consequence, put one of the “cartee
men” on guard, and once more I retired to my uncomfortable lodging. It
had a stone floor, being quite a superior sort of inn, the poorer sort
have only beaten earth, there were two wooden chairs of dark wood, high,
with narrow and uncomfortable seats, a table, also uncomfortably high,
and of course, the k'ang. Most people know all about the k'ang now, but
this was my first introduction to it as a working piece of furniture. It
is a platform of stone about two feet high, so constructed that a
small fire lighted underneath, and a very small fire it is, carries the
warmth, by a system of flues, all over it. It is covered generally
with matting, and on it is always a k'ang table, a little table
about eighteen inches square and a foot high, and, though this is not
intentional, covered with the grease of many meals.
I looked doubtfully at the k'ang this first day. It seemed to me I could
not lodge in such a place, and I wished heartily that I had left the
describing of China to some more hardened traveller. There was a grass
mat upon it, hiding its stoniness, and I had powdered borax sprinkled
over it, about half a tin of Keating's followed, though I am told the
insects in China rather like Keating's, and only then did I venture to
have my bed set up. Alongside was placed my india-rubber bath, the
gift of a friend, and every night of that journey did I thank her with
{162}all my heart, it was so much nicer than my old canvas bath, and
making sure that the “cartee man” was still on guard I proceeded to wash
and undress and creep into my sleeping-bag.
At only one Chinese inn where I stayed could food for the traveller be
had, and that was, I think, only because it combined the functions of
innkeeping and restaurant. In any case, of course, the foreign traveller
would not think of eating Chinese food, and I, like everyone else,
provided my own. I brought with me rice, tea, and flour. Tuan cooked for
me on an absurd little charcoal stove upon which I might have succeeded
in boiling an egg. With the exception of those few stores, I lived off
the country, buying chickens and eggs, onions, and hard little pears;
Tuan doing the buying, charging me at a rate that made me wonder how on
earth the “Wagons Lits” managed to board and lodge its guests at a day.
I used to think that, for sheer toughness, the palm might be given to
the West African chicken, but I withdraw that statement, he isn't in it
alongside the Chinese. We used to buy small birds about the size of a
pigeon, But an elderly ostrich couldn't have been tougher. My teeth,
thank Heaven, are excellent, but the Chinese chicken was too much for
them. I then saw why Tuan had provided a chopper for kitchen use, he
called it “cookee knife,” and the fiat went forth--I would have no more
chicken unless it was minced.
But that first night I couldn't look at chicken, I couldn't even laugh
at the woodeny pears and rice which were the next course. I declined
everything, lay in bed and drank tea, the wind came in through {163}the
open lattice-work, guttered my candle and then blew it out, and I, first
hot, and then cold, and always miserable, stared at the luminous night
sky, cut into squares by the lattice-work of the window, was conscious
of every bone in my body, and wondered if I were not going to be very
ill indeed.
[Illustration: 0243]