{350}
_The heat of Peking---The wall by moonlight--Tongshan--“Your devoted
milkman”--The eye of the mistress--A little fort--In case of an
outbreak--The Temple of the Sleeping Buddha--A runaway bride--The San
Shan An--My own temple courtyard--The missing outfit--The Language
Officer--Friends in need._
|It was David, I think, who said in his haste, that all men are liars,
but I suppose he was right, if he meant as he probably did, that at one
time or another, we are all of us given to making rash statements. I
expect it would be a rash statement to say that Peking in the summer is
the hottest place in the world, and that the heat of West Africa, that
much-maligned land, is nothing to it, and yet, even when I think over
the matter at my leisure, I know that the heat, for about six weeks,
is something very hard to bear. I suspect it is living in a stone house
inside the city walls that makes it so hot. Could I have slept in the
open I might have taken a different view. I slept, or rather I did not
sleep, with two windows wide open, and an electric fan going, but, since
Peking mosquitoes are of the very aggressive order, bred in the imperial
canal, the great open drain that runs through the city, it was always
necessary to keep the mosquito curtains drawn. If anyone doubts that
a house with mosquito-proof {351}windows and doors is an airless
death-trap, let him try and sleep under mosquito curtains, while hoping
for a breath of cool air from the electric fan. Fully half the air is
cut off, but as the mosquito curtains are raised during the daytime, the
air over the bed is renewed daily. In that abomination a mosquito-proof
house, it is never renewed.
Since it was a choice between little air and plenty of mosquitoes. I
chose the shortage of air, and generally went to bed with a deep soup
plate full of cold water, and a large sponge. It made the bed decidedly
wet, but that was an advantage.
I did not go away because the war had started between the North and the
South, and no one knew exactly what was going to happen. To be at the
heart of things is often to be too close, wiser eyes than mine saw
nothing. Once there was a rumour that the Southern army would march on
Peking, and that promised excitement, but in the city itself, though
there was martial law, there was no excitement, and the only pleasant
thing to do was to go on moonlight evenings and sit on the wall. There
was a cool breath of air there, if there was anywhere, and at any rate
the moonlight lent it a glamour, and the fireflies, that came out after
the rain, gave the added touch that made it fairyland.
But at last the heat was too much even for me, who am not wont to
complain of whatever sort of weather is doled out to me, and I accepted
the invitation of a friend to stay at Tongshan, which is a great railway
centre, a place where there is a coal mine, and some large cement works
run by capable and efficient Germans.
And at Tongshan I lived in the house that was {352}held for defence
during the Boxer trouble. The barrier at the gate--the barrier that is
at the gate of all Chinese houses, to keep off evil spirits, who can
only move in a straight line--was so curious that I took a photograph
of it, and against the walls that surround the grounds were the look-out
places which the railwaymen manned, and from which they kept watch and
ward.
I have always liked the feeling of living in a fort--a place where men
have helped to make history, but I have observed that it is always
the immediate trifle that is to the fore that counts, and my friend's
servants were a perpetual joy and delight to me. They used to write
her letters. There was one, a touching one, from the milkman I shall
remember with joy. A “cunningful” cook had misrepresented him, and he
wished to be taken into favour again, and he signed himself distractedly
“Your devoted milkman.” The cow was brought round so that it might be
milked before the eyes of the buyer, and only a Chinaman, surely, would
have been capable of concealing a bottle of water up his sleeves and
letting it run slowly down his arm as he milked, so that the cow was
unjustly accused of giving very poor milk. Besides, when the cow's
character was cleared, who knew from where that water had been taken,
and how much dirt it had washed off the arm down which it ran. No
pleading took that milkman into favour again, despite the tenderness
expressed in his signature. Another man had been away, and returning,
wished a small job as watchman at six dollars a month, and begging for
it by letter, he signed himself fervently “Your own Ah Foo.” But the
crowning boy was the No. 1 boy. He was a {353}delicious person without
intending it. When first my friend engaged him, she acquired at the same
time a small dog, and she soon realised that the rigorous Chinese winter
was hard on dogs, and that Ben must have a little coat. The question was
how to make the coat. No. 1 boy came to the rescue.
Mr ------ at the railway station had a dog, and “Marcus,” said the boy,
“have two coats.”
“Oh well borrow one and copy it,” said his mistress, relieved.
“My tink,” said the boy confidentially, and he sank his voice, “Missie
bolly, more better not send back.” And he looked at her to see if this
wisdom would sink in.
“Boy!”
“Marcus have two coats,” repeated he reproachfully.
[Illustration: 0496]
The owner of Marcus, on the story being told to him, when the coat was
borrowed with every assurance it should be returned, admitted that if
occasionally he saw among his accounts a coat for Marcus he always paid
for it, and supposed the old one had worn out. Thinking it over, he
thought perhaps he had supplied a friend or two, or more possibly his
friends' servants. No. 1 boy made a mistake in taking his mistress into
his confidence, instead of charging her for “one piecey dog coat.”
But, of course that is the trouble with Missies, as compared with
Masters, they have such inquiring minds. There was once a man of violent
temper who was in the habit of letting off steam on his No. 1 boy. He
abused him roundly, and even beat him whenever he felt out of sorts, yet
greatly to the surprise of all his friends, the boy put up with him, and
made him a very excellent servant. Presently he married, and then, much
to his surprise, before a month was out the boy, who had been faithful
and long-suffering for so long, came and gave notice.
“But why?” asked the astonished man.
“Master beat,” said the boy laconically.
“D----n it,” said the man, “I've beaten you a dozen times before. Why
do you complain now?”
“Before time,” explained the boy solemnly, “when Master beat, my put
down one dollar, sugar, one dollar flour. Now Missie come, no can. My
go.”
He did not mind a beating so long as he could make his master pay for
it, but when an inquiring mistress questioned these little items for
groceries that she knew had never been used, he gave up the place, he
could no longer get even with his master. It was a truly Chinese way of
looking at things.
These were some of the stories they told me in the house they had
fortified against the Boxers and held till the ships sent them a guard.
And once the sailors came there was no more danger, It was the luckless
country people who feared. The older men pitied and understood the
situation, but the mischievous young midshipmen took a fearful joy in
scaring the problematical enemy.
“Who goes there?”
“Belong my,” answered the shivering coolie, endeavouring to slip past,
and in deadly terror that the pointed rifle would go off. They were
ground between two millstones those unfortunate peasants. The Boxers
harried them, and then the foreigners came and avenged their wrongs on
these who had done probably no harm. Always it is these helpless serfs
who suffer in case of war. Other classes may suffer--these are sure to.
They will never hold this house again should necessity arise, for the
well that gave them water has gone dry.
Of course everyone hopes and says, that the necessity never will arise
again but for all that, they are not, the foreign settlers in China,
quite as certain of their safety as one would be in a country town in
England, for instance. They came in to afternoon tea and tennis, men
and women, and they gave all attention to the amusement in hand, a
lighthearted, cheerful set of people, and then one little speech and one
saw there was another side. There was always the _might be_. Everything
was going on as usual, everywhere around were peaceable, subservient
people, and yet--and yet terrible things had happened in the past,
who could say if they would not happen again. Every now and again, not
dominating the conversation, but running a subcurrent to it, would
come up the topic of the preparations they had made in case of “another
outbreak.”
One woman kept a box of clothes at Tientsin.
“I wonder you don't,” she said looking at her hostess. “No, my dear,
don't you remember yet, I never take sugar. Thank you. You ought to
think about it, you know. It is really so awkward if one has to rush
away in a hurry to find oneself without clothes.”
Another woman laughed, and yet she was very much in earnest.
“That's not the first thing to worry about. There, that was vantage to
them,” she interpolated, taking an interest in the game of tennis, “that
young {356}woman's going to make a nice little player. No, what I think
is that the place they have chosen to hold is far too far away. Want
your clothes in Tientsin? I'm not at all sure you'll get over that mile
and a half from your house in safety, and I've farther still to go,
with two little children too. Why don't you get your husband to------ Oh
there they've finished! Now have I time for another set?”
“It's after six.”
“Good gracious! And baby to bath! I must go. You speak to your husband
about another place, my dear. He'll have some influence.”
“No, I wouldn't try to hold any place again,” said my host, thinking
of the past, “I should be on the train and off to Tientsin at the first
hint of danger.”
“But suppose you couldn't get away in time?”
“Well, of course, that's possible,” he said thoughtfully, “and the
Chinese are beggars at pulling up railways.”
I listened, and then I understood how people get used to contemplating a
danger that is only possible, and not actually impending.
“If anything happens to Yuan Shih K'ai,” but then, of course, though
that is not only a possible, but even a probable danger, everyone hopes
that nothing will happen to Yuan Shih K'ai, just as if anything did
happen to him, they would hope things would not be as bad as they had
feared, and if their worst fears were realised, then they would hope
that they would be the lucky ones who would not be overwhelmed. This
is human nature, at least one side of human nature, the side of human
nature that has made of the British a great colonising people. The
autumn was coming, the golden, glowing {357}autumn of Northern China,
so, coming back to Peking, I determined to find out some place where I
could enjoy its beauties and write the book which my publisher expected.
Most people seem to think that the writing of a book is a mere question
of plenty of time, a good pen, paper, and ink. “You press the button, we
do the rest,” promises a certain firm that makes cameras; but I do not
find either writing or taking photographs quite so simple a matter as
all that. To do either, even as well as I can, I want to be by myself,
for I am a sociable being, I do love the society of my kind, to talk to
them, to exchange ideas with them, and when I am doing that, I cannot
give the time and attention it requires to writing. Everyone who writes
in China, and anyone who writes at all is moved to take pen in hand
to try and elucidate its mysteries, wants to write in a temple in the
Western Hills. I was no exception to the rule. The Western Hills, whose
rugged outlines you can see from Peking, called me, and I set out
to look for a temple. It was going to be easy enough to get one, for
“Legation” Peking goes to the hills in the summer, and when autumn holds
the land goes back to the joys of city life.
The first I inspected was the Temple of the Sleeping Buddha, a temple
which has many courtyards, and a figure of the Buddha, peacefully
sleeping. An emblem of peace looks the great bronze figure. He is, of
course, represented clothed, only his feet are bare, and the faithful
bring him offerings of shoes, rows and rows of shoes there were on a
shelf at the side of the temple, some colossal, three or four feet long,
and some tiny, some made after the fashion of the ordinary Chinese shoe,
of silk or {358}quilted satin, but some make-believe, and very excellent
make-believe, of paper. Looking at them I could not have told the
difference, and as the Buddha's eyes are shut, he could not even go
as far as that. He certainly could not put them on, for his feet are
pressed closely together, the feet of a profoundly sleeping man. All is
peace here. Here there is no trouble, no anxiety, that sleeping figure
seems to say.
But there was for all that. Where in the world is there no trouble?
[Illustration: 0504]
It takes about three and a half hours to reach the Sleeping Buddha
Temple from Peking. First I took a rickshaw across the city. Then from
the northwest gate, the Hsi Chih Men, still by rickshaw, I went to the
Summer Palace, and I did the remaining five miles into the heart of the
hills on a donkey. I don't like riding a donkey, five miles on a donkey
on an uncomfortable Chinese saddle, riding astride, wearies me to death,
and when I was just thinking life was no longer worth living I arrived,
and wandered into a courtyard where, at the head of some steps, stood a
little Chinese girl. She was dressed in the usual dress of a girl of the
better classes, a coat and trousers, like a man usually wears with us,
only the coat had a high collar standing up against her cheeks, and
because she was unmarried, she wore her hair simply drawn back from
her face and plaited in a long tail down her back, much as an English
schoolgirl wears it. She made me a pretty, shy salutation, and called to
her friend the Englishwoman, who had rented the courtyard, and who
was living here while she painted pictures. This lady was returning
to Peking she said, next day, but she {359}very kindly invited me to
luncheon, and she told me the Chinese girl's story. She was practically
in hiding. She had been betrothed, of course, years before to some boy
she had never seen, and this year the time had arrived for the carrying
out of the contract. But young China is beginning to think it has rights
and objects to being disposed of in marriage without even a chance to
protest. It would not be much good the boy running away, however much
he objected to the matrimonial plans his family had made for him, for he
could be married quite easily in his absence, a cock taking his place;
but it beats even the Chinese to have a marriage without a bride,
therefore the girl had run away. The time was past and the contract had
not been carried out. Poor little girl! It surprised me that so shy and
quiet a little girl had found courage to defy authority and run away,
even though she had found out that her betrothed was as averse from the
marriage as she was. She had unbound her feet, as if to signalise her
freedom; but alas, the arch of her foot was broken, and she could never
hope to be anything but flat-footed, still that was better than walking
with stiff knees, on her heels, as if her legs were a couple of wooden
pegs like the majority of her fellow-countrywomen. The woman who was
befriending her suggested, as I was taking a temple in the hills, I
should give her sanctuary. That was all very well, but the care of
a helpless being, like a Chinese girl, is rather an undertaking. I
consulted a friend who had been in China many years, and he was emphatic
on the subject.
“No, no, no. Never have anything to do with a woman in China until
she is well over forty. You {360}don't know the trouble you will let
yourself in for. Chinese women!” And he held up his hands. So it appears
that the secluded life does not make them all that they ought to be.
However, while I was considering the matter, some woman in Peking,
kinder and less cautious than I, stepped in and the little girl has
found an asylum, and is, I am assured by a friend, all right, and better
off than hundreds of her people. True she easily might be that, and yet
not have attained to much.
I always seem to be talking of the condition of the Chinese women, like
King Charles's head, it comes into everything. After all, the condition
and status of half the nation must be always cropping up when one
considers the people at all. “Chinese women,” said a man, “are
past-mistresses in false modesty.” And again I thought what a commentary
on a nation. To Western eyes how it marks the subjection and the
ignorance of the women.
When the first baby is coming, the bride is supposed, though it would be
a tragedy beyond all words if she had no children, to be too shy to tell
her husband, or even her mother-in-law, so she puts on bracelets, and
then the family know that this woman, at least, is about to fulfil her
destiny. I hope the little Chinese girl I found up in the Temple of the
Sleeping Buddha will yet marry, marry someone she chooses herself, will
not need to pluck out the front hairs on her forehead, and will be on
such terms with her husband, that though she may with pride put on the
bracelets, she may rejoice openly that their love is crowned. I do not
think there will be any false modesty about her. {361}But I did not take
a courtyard in the Sleeping Buddha Temple. It was rented by the Y.M.C.A.
and I think that, combined with the donkey ride, put me off. I felt
I would rather go farther afield, farther away from the traces of the
foreigner, and I could have my pick of temples in September. I took the
San Shan An, in another valley, one of the lovely valleys of the world.
The San Shan An is only a small temple with a central courtyard and
two or three smaller ones, and I agreed to take it for the sum of
twenty-eight dollars a month. I engaged a cook and a boy, the boy's
English was scanty and the cook had none, but I only paid the two
twenty-four dollars a month, six dollars less than the valued Tuan had
all to himself, and one day in September I saw my household gods on to
two carts, went myself by train, and got out at the first station at the
Western Hills.
I had taken the precaution, as I had no Chinese, and I did not expect
to meet anybody who understood English, to have the name of the temple
written out in Chinese characters, and descending from the train, after
a little trouble I found one among the wondering crowd who could read,
and all that crowd, a dirty little crowd, took an interest in my further
movements. They immediately supplied me with donkeys and boys to choose
from, and I had the greatest difficulty in explaining that I did not
want a donkey, all I wanted was a guide. The only one who seemed to
grasp it was a very ragged individual who, with basket under his
arm, and scoop in hand, was gathering manure. He promptly seized my
dispatch-box, all the luggage I carried, and we started, pursued by
disappointed boys with donkeys, {362}who could not believe that the
foreign woman was actually going to walk in the wake of a man who
gathered manure. I must confess it was a most humble procession, even in
my eyes, who am not accustomed to standing on my dignity. My only sister
had given me that dispatch-case as a parting present, and it looked
wonderfully rich and cultured in the very grimy hand that grasped it
so triumphantly. I should never have had the heart to turn that old
man away, he looked so pleased at having got a job. Off he went, and
we walked for over an hour across a flat and rough country, where the
kaoliang had been gathered on to the threshing floors, and all the
people this gorgeous hot autumn day were at work there.
A threshing floor in the East makes one think of Ruth and Boaz, and
possibly these people were not unlike those who worked on that threshing
floor in Judah so long ago, only they were dirty and poor, and not
comely as we picture the Moabitish beauty. It was hot as we walked, and
I grew a little doubtful as we approached the hills--were we going in
the right direction.
“San Shan Erh,” said my guide, and he repeated it, and I grew more
doubtful, for I did not know then that these hill people say, “San Shan
Erh” where a more cultivated man would say “San Shan An,” it is
very Pekingese to have many “r's” to roll. He combined business with
pleasure, or rather he combined his business, and whenever he came
across a patch of manure, he gathered it in, and I waited patiently. At
last we came to the entrance of a well-wooded valley, and a well-wooded
valley is a precious thing in China, and we went up a roughly
{363}flagged pathway, flagged, I dare say, a couple of hundred years ago
or more, a steep pathway by a graveyard, and between the trees that were
just taking on a tinge of autumn gold, we arrived at a plateau built
up with stones, and along beneath some trees we entered a gate and
came into a square brick paved courtyard surrounded by low, one-storied
buildings, and with four pine-trees raising their dark green branches
against the deep blue sky. I had seen so many temple courtyards, and
now here was one, that for a space, was to be my very own. In China,
it seems, the gods always make preparation for taking in guests--at a
price.
[Illustration: 0510]
But was this my temple?
My heart sank, as for a moment I realised what a foolish thing I had
done. I had supposed, after my usual fashion, that everything would go
smoothly for me, and now at the very outset, things were going wrong,
and I knew I was helpless. Two men in blue, of the coolie class, old,
and very, very dirty, looked at me, and talked unintelligibly to my
guide, and he, very intelligibly, demanded his _cumshaw_, but there was
no sign of my possessions.
For the moment I feared, feared greatly, I was entirely alone, what
might not happen to me? I might not even have been brought to the right
temple, for all I knew. In bridge, when doubtful they say play to win,
so I decided I must act as if everything was all right, and I paid my
guide his _cumshaw_, saw him go, and not quite as happy as I should have
liked to have been, inspected the temple. There was one big room that I
decided would do me for a living-room, if this were really my temple, as
it had a sort of little veranda or {364}look-out place, which stood out
on the cliff side overlooking the place of tombs, and the plain where in
the distance, about twelve miles as the crow flies, I could see in the
clear atmosphere the walls of Peking. They might as well have been a
hundred, I thought ruefully, for all the help I was likely to get from
that city to-night, if this were not really my temple.
A Chinese temple is sparsely furnished. All the rooms had stone floors,
all of them opened into the courtyard and not into one another, and for
all furniture there were the usual k'angs, two cupboards, three tables,
and three uncomfortable Chinese chairs. I had hired an easy chair, a
lamp, and with my camp outfit I expected to manage. But where was my
camp outfit?
I could not understand a word of what the people said, but they seemed
friendly, they well might be, I thought, I was entirely at their mercy,
and a very dirty old gentleman with claw-like hands, an unshaven head,
and the minutest of queues came and contemplated me in a way which was
decidedly disconcerting. I went and looked at the gods, dusty and dirty
too in their sanctuaries. There was a most musical bell alongside one of
them and when I struck it, the clang seemed to emphasise my loneliness
and helplessness. Could this be the right temple? If it was not where
was I to go? There was no means of getting back to Peking, short of
walking, even then the gates must be shut long before I arrived. As far
as I knew, there was no foreigner left in the hills. I went on to the
look-out place, and looked out over the plain, and the old man came and
looked at me, and I grew more and more uncomfortable. {365}Tiffin time
was long past, afternoon tea time came and went. It had been warm enough
in the middle of the day, but the evenings grow chill towards the end of
September, and I had only a white muslin gown on. At the very best the
prospect of sleeping on one of those cold and stony k'angs did not look
inviting. I could have cried as the shadows grew long and the sun set.
And then, oh joy, down beneath me, out on the hill-side, I heard a
voice, an unmistakable American voice. I had been terrified, and like a
flash my terrors rolled away. I looked over and there were a man and a
woman taking an evening stroll, very much at home, for neither of them
had on a hat. I forgot in a moment I had been afraid and I hailed them
at once.
“Is this the San Shan An?”
“Sure,” said the man as they looked up in surprise.
Well, that was a relief anyhow, and I thought how foolish I had been to
be afraid. But where were the carts?
The stranger said they ought to have arrived hours ago, and then they
bid me good-bye, and I waited once more. I was uncomfortable now--I
was no longer afraid. At least not till it grew dark, and then, I must
confess, the place seemed to me strangely eerie. The sun was set,
the moon was old, and not due till the morning, the faint wind moaned
through the pine-branches, and the darkness was full of all sorts of
strange, mysterious, unexplainable sounds. It was cold, cold, and the
morning and the light were a good eleven hours off.
Then, just as I was in the depths of despair, there {366}was a commotion
in the courtyard, a lantern flashed on the trunks of the pine-trees, and
a kindly American voice out of the darkness said:
“I thought I had better come down and see if your outfit had turned up.”
“There is not a sign of it.” I wonder if there was relief in my voice.
“No, so the people here tell me, and they are in rather a way about
you.”
So that was why the dirty old gentleman had apparently been stalking me.
It had never occurred to me that these people could be troubled about
me, this was a new and kindly light on Chinese character.
“Perhaps you'll come along with me,” went on my new friend. “I've got
two ladies staying with me from Tientsin, and they'll do the best they
can for you for the night.”
Bless him, bless him, I could have hugged him. Go, of course I went
thankfully, and with his lantern, he guided me over the steepest and
roughest of mountain paths till we came to his temple, a much bigger one
than mine.
“I thought there was no one left in the hills,” I said as we went along.
“I'm going next week,” he said, “but I love this valley. There is only
one lovelier in the world--the one I was born in.”
“And where is that?”
“The Delaware Valley. These people,” he went on, “are mightily relieved
to hear I am going to keep you for the night.”
Again I thanked him, and indeed he and his friends were friends in
need. “And I cannot make them understand like you do,” I said a little
futilely. {367}“Well, I ought to,” he laughed. “I'm the Language
Officer.”
He decided my carts had had time to come from Peking and go back again,
and they must have gone up the wrong valley, and he and his friends took
me in and fed me, and comforted me, so that I was ready to laugh at my
woes, and then, just as we were finishing an excellent dinner, there
appeared on the terrace, where we were dining, an agitated individual
with a guttering candle, my boy, whom I hardly knew by sight yet.
He told a tale of woe and suffering. According to him, the road to Jehol
must have been nothing to that road from Peking to the Western Hills,
and I and my new friends went down to inspect what was left of my
outfit. There wasn't much in it that was smashable, and beyond salad oil
in the bread and kerosene in the salt, there was not much damage done.
I could not understand though how they had come to grief at all, for
the loads were certainly light for two carts, and once in the hills, of
course, the goods were carried by men. And then the truth dawned on me.
It was the way of a Chinese servant all over. I had been foolish enough
to give my boy the five dollars to pay for the two carts. He had made
one do, and pocketed two dollars fifty cents. I asked him if such were
not the case.
“Yes, sah,” said he, and I wondered, till I found that he always said
“Yes, sah,” whether he understood me or not. More often than not he did
not understand, but that “sah” made me understand he had learned his
little English from a countryman of my friend, the Language Officer.
And after all I think I was glad of the little adventure. I had not
realised how eerie a temple would be all by myself at night, and it was
good to think that for a night or two at least there would be people of
my own colour within a quarter of an hour of me on the hill-side.
[Illustration: 0518]