1
DOANE stood on the Bund at Hankow, by the railing, his great frame
towering above the passers-by. He had lunched with the consul general,
an old acquaintance. He had arranged to stop overnight, with Betty, in
a missionary compound. In the morning they would take the weekly Peking
Express northward.
The wide yellow Yangtse flowed by, between its steep mud cliffs,
crowded with sampans--hundreds of them moored, rail to rail, against the
opposite bank, a compact floating village that was cluttered and crowded
with ragged river-folk and deck-houses of arched matting and that reared
skyward a thick tangle of masts and rigging. The smaller boats and tubs
of the water-beggars lay against the bank just beneath him, expectantly
awaiting the Shanghai steamer. Out in the stream several stately junks
lay at anchor; and near them a tiny river gunboat, her low free-board
glistening white in the warm spring sunshine, a wisp of smoke trailing
lazily from her funnel, the British ensign hanging ir folds astern.
Down and up the water steps were moving continuously the innumerable
water bearers whose business it was to supply the city of near a million
yellow folk that lay just behind the commercial buildings and the
pyramid-like godowns of the Bund.
To Doane the picture, every detail of which had a place in the
environment of his entire adult life, seemed unreal. The consul general,
too, had been unreal. His talk, mostly of remembered if partly mellowed
political grievances back home, of the great days when a certain “easy
boss” was in power, and later of the mutterings of revolution up and
down the Yangtse Valley, sounded in Doane's ears like quaint idle
chatter of another planet.... His own talk, it seemed now, had been as
unreal as the rest of it.
Of the compliment men of affairs usually paid him, despite his calling,
in speaking out as man to man, Doane had never thought and did not think
now. He was not self-conscious.
The hours of sober thought that followed his talk with Henry Withery had
deepened the furrow between his brows.
In an odd way he was dating from that talk. It had been extraordinarily
futile. It had to come, some sort of outbreak. For two or three years he
had rather vaguely recognized this fact, and as vaguely dreaded it. Now
it had happened. It was like a line drawn squarely across his life. He
was different now; perhaps more honest, certainly franker with himself,
but different... It had shaken him. Sleep left him for a night or two.
Getting away for this trip to Hankow seemed a good thing. He had to be
alone, walking it off, and thinking... thinking.... He walked the two
hundred and ninety _li_ to M. Pour-mont's compound, at Ping Yang, the
railhead that spring of the new meter-guage line into Hans' Province in
two days. The mule teams took three.
He dwelt much with memories of his daughter. She had been a winning
little thing. Until the terrible Boxer year, that ended, for him, in the
death of his wife, she had brought continuous happiness into their life.
She would be six years older now. He couldn't picture that. She had sent
an occasional snapshot photograph; but these could not replace his vivid
memories of the child she had been.
He was tremulously eager to see her. There would be little problems of
adjustment. Over and over he told himself that he mustn't be stern with
her; he must watch that.
He felt some uncertainty regarding her training. It was his hope
that she would fit into the work of the mission. It seemed, indeed,
necessary. She would be contributing eager young life. Her dutiful,
rather perfunctory letters had made that much about her clear. They
needed that.
During the talk with Withery--it kept coming, up--he had heard his own
voice saying--in curiously deliberate tones--astonishing things. He
had sent his friend away in a state of deepest concern. He thought of
writing him. A letter might catch him at Shanghai. There would be time
in the morning, during the long early hours before this household down
here would be awaking and gathering for breakfast. It would help, he
felt impulsively, to explain fully... But what? What was it that was to
be so easily explained? Could he erase, with a few strokes of a pen, the
unhappy impression he had made that night on Henry's brain?
The suggestion of marriage, with its implication of a rather cynical
worldly wisdom, had come oddly from the devout Henry. Henry was older,
too. But Doane winced at the mere recollection. He was almost excitedly
sensitive on the topic. He had put women out of his mind, and was
determined to keep them out. But at times thoughts of them slipped in.
On the walk to Ping Yang, the second afternoon, he was swinging down
a valley where the road was no more than the stony bed of an
anciently-diverted stream. The caravan of a mandarin passed, bound
doubtless from Peking to a far western province. That it was a great
mandarin was indicated by his richly decorated sedan chair borne by
sixteen footmen with squadrons of cavalry before and behind. Five mule
litters followed, each with a brightly painted, young face pressed
against the tiny square window, the wives or concubines of the great
one. Each demurely studied him through slanting eyes. And the last one
smiled; quickly, brightly. It was death to be caught at that, yet life
was too strong for her. He walked feverishly after that. He had said
one thing to Henry... something never before formulated, even in his own
thinking. What was it? Oh, this!--“Henry, I'm full of a fire and energy
that no longer find an outlet in my work. I want to turn to new fields.
If I don't, before it's too late, I may find myself on the rocks.”
There was something bitterly, if almost boyishly true in that statement.
The vital, vigorous adult that was developing within him, now, in the
forties, seemed almost unrelated to the young man he had been. He felt
life, strength, power. In spirit he was younger than ever. All he
had done, during more than twenty years, seemed but a practising for
something real, a schooling. Now, standing there, a stern figure, on
the Hankow Bund, he was aware of a developed, flowering instinct for the
main currents of the mighty social stream, for rough, fresh contacts,
large enterprises. His religion had been steadily widening out from the
creed of his youth, gradually including all living things, all
growth, far outspreading the set boundaries of churchly thought. This
development of his spirit had immensely widened his spiritual influence
among the Chinese of the province while at the same time making it
increasingly different to talk frankly with fellow churchmen.
He had come to find more of the bread of life in Emerson and Montaigne,
Chaucer and Shakespeare; less in Milton and Peter. He could consider
Burns now with a new pity, without moral condescension, with simple
love. He could feel profoundly the moral triumph of Hester Prynne, while
wondering at what seemed his own logic. He struggled against a weakening
faith in the authenticity of divine revelation, as against a deepening
perception that the Confucian precepts might well be a healthy and even
sufficient outgrowth of fundamental Chinese characteristics.
He thought, at times rather grimly, of the trials for heresy that now
and then rocked the church; and wondered, as grimly, how soon the heresy
hunters would be getting around to him. The smallest incident might,
sooner or later would, set them after him.
Henry Withery was certain, in spite of his personal loyalty, out of his
very concern, to drop a word. And there was literally no word he could
drop, after their talk, but would indicate potential heresy in his
friend, James Griggsby Doane.
Or it might come from within the compound. Or from a passing stranger.
Or from remarks of his own at the annual conference. Or from letters.
There were moments when he could have invited exposure as a relief from
doubt and torment of soul. There was nothing of the hypocrite in him.
But in soberer moments he felt certain that it was letter to wait until
he could find, if not divine guidance, at least an intelligent earthly
plan.
All he could do, as it stood, was to work harder and harder with body
and mind. And to shoulder more and more responsibility. Without that he
would be like a wild engine, charging to destruction.
His daughter would be, for a time certainly, one more burden. He was
glad. Anything that would bring life real again! Work above all; every
waking moment, if possible, filled; his mental and physical powers taxed
to their uttermost; that was the thing; crowd out the brooding, the
mere feeling. Action, all the time, and hard, objective thought. The
difficulty was that his powers were so great; he seemed never to tire
any more; his thoughts could dwell on many planes at once; he actually
needed but a few hours' sleep.... And so Betty would be a young woman
now, mysteriously as old as her mother on her wedding day: a young woman
of unknown interests and sympathies, of a world he himself had all but
ceased to know. And it came upon him suddenly, then with tremendous
emotional force, that he had no heritage to leave her but a good name.
He stood gripping the railing, head back, gazing up out of misty eyes at
a white-flecked blue sky. A prayer arose from his heart and, a whisper,
passed his lips: “O God, show me Thy truth, that it may set me.”
In the intensity of his brooding he had forgotten to watch for
the steamer. But now he became aware of a stir of life along the
river-front. The beggars were paddling out into the stream, making ready
their little baskets at the ends of bamboo poles.
Over the cliffs, down-stream, hung a long film of smoke. The steamer had
rounded the bend and was plowing rapidly up toward the twin cities. He
could make out the two white stripes on the funnel, and the cluster of
ventilators about it, and the new canvas across the front of the bridge.
A moment later he could see the tiny figures crowding the rail.
The steamer warped in alongside a new wharf.
Doane stood near the gangway, all emotion, nearly out of control.
From below hundreds of coolies, countrymen and ragged soldiers swarmed
up, to be herded off at one side of the wharf. The local coolies went
aboard and promptly started unloading freight, handling crates and bales
of half a ton weight with the quick, half grunted, half sung chanteys,
intricately rhythmical, with which all heavy labor is accompanied in the
Yangtse Valley.
Two spectacled Chinese merchants in shimmering silk robes came down the
gangway. A tall American, in civilian dress and overcoat but carrying
a leather sword case, followed. Two missionaries came, one in Chinese
dress with a cue attached to his skull-cap, bowing to the stern giant as
they passed. Then a French father in black robe and shovel hat; a group
of Englishmen; a number of families, American, British, French; and
finally, coming along the shaded deck, the familiar kindly face and
silvery heard of Doctor Hasmer--he was distinctly growing older,
Hasmer--then his wife, and, emerging from the cabin, a slim little
figure, rather smartly dressed, extraordinarily pretty, radiating a
quick charm as she hurried to the gangway, there pausing a moment to
search the wharf.
Her eyes met his. She smiled.
It was Betty. He felt her charm, but his heart was sinking.
She kissed him. She seemed all enthusiasm, even very happy. But a moment
later, walking along the wharf toward the Bund, her soft little face was
sad. He wondered, as his thoughts whirled around, about that.
Her clothes, her beauty, her bright manner, indicating a girlish
eagerness to be admired, wouldn't do at the mission. And she couldn't
wear those trim little shoes with heels half an inch higher than a
man's.
She had, definitely, the gift and the thought of adorning herself. She
was a good girl; there was stuff in her. But it wouldn't do; not out
there in T'ainan. And she looked like anything in the world but a
teacher.
She fascinated him. She was the lovely creature his own little girl
had become. Walking beside her up the Bund, chatting with the Hasmers,
making a fair show of calm, his heart swelled with love and pride. She
was delicate, shyly adorable, gently feminine.
It was going to be difficult to speak about her costume and her charming
ways. It wouldn't do to crush her. She was quick enough; very likely she
would pick up the tone of the compound very quickly and adapt herself to
it.
3
Young Li Hsien, of T'ainan had come up on the boat. Doans talked a
moment with him on the wharf. He was taking the Peking Express in the
morning, traveling first-class. The boy's father was a wealthy banker
and had always been generous with his firstborn son.
Li appeared in the dining-car at noon, calmly smiling, and, at Doane's
imitation, sat with him and Betty. He carried a copy of _Thus Spake
Zarathustra_, in English, with a large number of protruding paper
bookmarks.
Doane glanced in some surprise at the volume lying rather ostentatiously
on the table, and then at the pigtailed young man who ate foreign food
with an eagerness and a relish that indicated an excited interest in
novel experiment not commonly found among his race.
They talked in Chinese. Li had much to say of the Japanese. He admired
them for adopting and adapting to their own purposes the material
achievements of the Western world. He had evidently heard something of
Theodore Roosevelt and rather less of Lloyd George and Karl Marx. Doane
was of the opinion, later, that during the tiffin hour the lad had told
all he had learned in six months at Tokio. When asked why he was not
finishing out his college year he smiled enigmatically and spoke of
duties at home. He knew, of course, that Doane would instantly dismiss
the reason as meaningless; it was his Chinese way of suggesting that he
preferred not to answer the question.
Twenty-four hours later they transferred their luggage to the Hansi
Line, and headed westward into the red hills; passing, within an hour,
through the southern extension of the Great Wall, now a ruin. The night
was passed in M. Pourmont's compound at Ping Yang. After this there were
two other nights in ancient, unpleasant village inns.
Duane made every effort to lessen the discomforts of the journey.
Outwardly kind, inwardly emotions fought with one another. He felt now
that he should never have sent for Betty; never in the world She seemed
to have had no practical training. She grew quiet and wistful as the
journey proceeded. The little outbreaks of enthusiasm over this or that
half-remembered glimpse of native life came less frequently from day to
day.
There were a number of young men at Ping Yang; one French engineer who
spoke excellent English; an Australian; others, and two or three young
matrons who had adventurously accompanied their husbands into the
interior. They all called in the evening. The hospitable Pourmont took
up rugs and turned on the talking-machine, and the young people danced.
Doane sat apart, watched the gracefully gliding couples; tried to smile.
The dance was on, Betty in the thick of it, before he realized what
was meant. He couldn't have spoken without others hearing. It was plain
enough that she entered into it without a thought; though as the
evening wore on he thought she glanced at him, now and then, rather
thoughtfully. And he found himself, at these moments, smiling with
greater determination and nodding at her.
The incident plunged him, curiously, swiftly, into the heart of his own
dilemma. He rested an elbow on a table and shaded his eyes, trying, as
he had been trying all these years, to think.
What a joyous little thing she was! What a fairy! And dancing seemed,
now, a means of expression for her youth and her gift of charm. And
there was an exquisite delight, he found, in watching her skill with the
young men. She was gay, quick, tactful. Clearly young men had, before
this, admired her. He wondered what sort of men.
She interrupted this brooding with one of those slightly perturbed
glances. Quickly he lowered his hand in order that she might see him
smile; but she had whirled away.
Joy!... Not before this moment, not in all the years of puzzled,
sometimes bitter thinking, had he realized the degree in which
mission life--for that matter, the very religion of his denominational
variety--shut joy out. They were afraid of it. They fought it. In their
hearts they associated it with vice It was of this world; their eyes
were turned wholly to another.
His teeth grated together. The muscles of his strong jaws moved; bunched
on his cheeks. He knew now that he believed in joy as an expression of
life.
Had he known where to turn for the money he would gladly have planned,
at this moment, to send Betty back to the States, give her more of an
education, even arrange for her to study drawing and painting. For on
the train, during their silences, she had sketched the French conductor,
the French-speaking Chinese porter, the sleepy, gray-brown, walled
villages, the wide, desert-like flats of the Hoang-Ho, the tumbling
hills. He was struck by her persistence at it; the girlish energy she
put into it.
That night, late, long after the music had stopped and the last guests
had left for their dwellings about the large compound, she came across
the corridor and tapped at his door. She wore a kimono of Japan; her
abundant brown hair rippled about her shoulders.
“Just one more good night, Daddy,” she murmured.
And then, turning away, she added this, softly:
“I never thought about the dancing until--well, we'd started...”
He stood a long moment in silence, then said:
“I'm glad you had a pleasant evening, dear. We--we're rather quiet at
T'ainan.”
4
Pao Ting Chuan was a man of great shrewdness and considerable
distinction of appearance, skilled in ceremonial intercourse, a master
of the intricate courses a prominent official must steer between
beautifully phrased moral and ethical maxims on the one hand and
complicated political trickery on the other. But, as Doane had said, he
knew the cost of indemnities. It was on his shrewdness, his really great
intelligence, and on his firm control of the “gentry and people” of the
province that Doane relied to prevent any such frightful slaughter of
whites and destruction of their property as had occurred in 1900. Pao,
unlike most of the higher mandarins, was Chinese, not Manchu.
The tao-tai of the city of T'ainan-fu, Chang Chih Ting, was an older man
than Pao, less vigorous of body and mind, simpler and franker. He was of
those who bewail the backwardness of China.
From the tao-tai's yamen, on the first day of the great April fair, set
forth His Excellency in full panoply of state--a green official chair
with many bearers, an escort of twenty footmen, with runners on ahead.
Behind this caravan, hidden from view in the depths of a blue Peking
cart, with the conventional extra servant dangling his heels over the
foreboard, rode Griggsby Doane.
The principal feature of the opening day was a theatrical performance.
The play, naturally, was an historical satire, shouted and occasionally
sung by the heavily-costumed actors, to a continuous accompaniment of
wailing strings. The stage was a platform in the open air, under a tree
hung with bannerets inscribed to the particular spirit supposed to dwell
within its encircling bark.
His Excellency stood, with Doane, on a knoll, looking out over the heads
of the vast audience toward the stage. Doane estimated the attendance at
near ten thousand.
The play, begun in the early morning, was now well advanced. At its
conclusion, the audience was beginning to break up when a slim blue-clad
figure mounted the platform and began a hurried speech.
Chang and Doane looked at each other; then as one man moved forward
down the knoll with the throng. The tao-tai's attendants followed, in
scattered formation.
The speaker was Li Hsien.
Slowly the magistrate and the missionary made their way toward the
stage.
At first the crowd, at sight of the magistrate's button and embroidered
insignia, made way as well as they could. But as the impassioned phrases
of Li Hsien sank into their minds resistance developed. From here
and there in the crowd came phrases expressing a vile contempt for
foreigners such as Doane had not heard for years.
Li was lashing himself up, crying out more and more vigorously against
the Ho Shan Company, the barbarous white governments from which it
derived force, foreign pigs everywhere. The crowds closed, solidly,
before the two advancing men.
The magistrate waved his arms; shouted a command that Li leave the
platform. Li, hearing only a voice of opposition in the crowd, poured
out voluble scorn on his head. The crowd jostled Duane. A stick struck
his cheek. He whirled and caught the stick, but the wielder of it
escaped in the crowd.
Chang tried to reason, then, with the few hundred within ear-shot.
The sense of violence seemed to be increasing. A few of the magistrate's
escort were struggling through. These formed a circle about him and
Doane.
Li shouted out charge after charge against the company. He begged his
hearers to be brave, as he was brave; to destroy all the works of the
company with dynamite; to wreck all the grounds of the foreign engineer
at Ping Yang and kill all the occupants; to kill foreigners everywhere
and assert the ancient integrity and superiority of China. “Be brave!”
he cried again. “See, I am brave. I die for Hansi. Can not you, too,
die for Hansi? Can not you think of me, of how I died for our cause, and
yourself, in memory of my act, fight for your beloved country, that it
may again be the proud queen of the earth?”
He drew a revolver from his sleeve; shot twice; fell to the stage in a
widening pool of blood.
At once the vast crowd went wild. Those near the white man turned on him
as if to kill him. His clothes were torn, his head cut. Man after man
he knocked down with his powerful fists. Before many moments he was
exulting in the struggle, in his strength and the full use of it.
The magistrate, struggled beside him. For the people. In their frenzy,
forgot or ignored his rank and overwhelmed him.
The runners fought as well as they could. Two or three of them fell.
Then a body of horsemen came charging into the crowd, soldiers from
the judge's yamen, all on shaggy little Manchu ponies, swinging clubbed
carbines as they rode. Right and left, men and boys fell. The crowd
broke and scattered.
Chang, bleeding from several small wounds, his exquisitely embroidered
silken garments torn nearly off his body, made his way back to the green
chair.
Doane was escorted by soldiers to the mission compound. He slipped in to
wash off the blood and change his clothes without being seen by Betty or
any of the whites.
Shortly came two runners of His Excellency, Pao Ting Chuan, bearing
trays of gifts. And a Chinese note expressing deepest regret and
pledging complete protection in the future.
Doane dismissed the runners with a Mexican dollar each, and thoughtfully
considered the situation. Pao was strong, very strong. Yet the
self-destruction of Li Hsien would act as a flaming signal to the people
It was the one appeal that might rouse them beyond control.