ever, now that he had recovered from the unpleasant two weeks that
preceded his trial. These two weeks had been more uncomfortable than
he liked to think about, but safely away from the scene of the
disturbance, he became more abusive, more brutal than ever in his
attitude towards the Chinese. His servants horribly feared him, yet
did his bidding with alacrity. The reputation of a man who could kill
when he chose, with impunity, stood him in good stead. Liu, the son of
Kwong, followed him up-river and obtained a place in his household as
pidgeon-cook, assistant to number-one cook. Rivers failed to recognize
his new servant, and at such times as he encountered him, was
delighted with the servile attitude of the youth, and called him "Son
of a Turtle" which is the worst insult in the Chinese language.
Liu bided his time, for time is of no moment in the Orient. His hatred
grew from day to day, but he continued to wait. He wished to see
Rivers thoroughly successful, at the height of his career, before
calling him to account. Since he would have to pay for his revenge
with his life--not being a European--he determined that a white man at
the top of his pride would be a more fitting victim than one who had
not yet climbed the ladder. Such was his simple reasoning. Under his
long blue coat there hung a long, thin knife, whetted to razor
sharpness on both edges.
Summer came again, and the blazing heat of mid-China, lay over the
land. Mrs. Rivers went north to join her children, and the number of
guests in the hotel diminished to two or three. Business and tourists
came to a standstill during these scorching weeks, and Rivers finally
went down to Shanghai for a few days' jollification. He left his
affairs in the hands of the shroff, the Chinese accountant, who could
be trusted to manage them for a short time.
He returned unexpectedly one night about eleven o'clock, quite drunk.
The few guests had retired and the hotel was closed. At the gate, the
watchman lay asleep beside his lantern, and when Rivers let himself in
with his key, he found Liu in the lounge, also asleep. He cursed Liu,
but submitted to the steady, supporting arm which the boy place around
his waist, and was led to bed without difficulty. Liu assisted his
master to undress, folding up the crumpled, white linen clothes with
silver buttons, and laying them neatly across a chair. He was an
excellent servant. Then he retired from the room, listening outside
the door till he heard sounds of heavy, stertorous breathing. At that
moment, the contempt of the Chinese for the dominant race was even
greater than Rivers' contempt for the inferior one.
When the proprietor's breathing had assumed reassuring proportions,
Liu opened the door cautiously, and stepped lightly into the room. He
then locked it with equal caution, slipped quietly across to the
verandah, and passed out through the long, wide-open windows. The
verandah was a dozen feet from the ground, and the dark passage below,
leading to the gate, was deserted. At the other end sat the watchman
with his lantern, presumably asleep. Liu had not heard his drum tap
for an hour. A shaft of moonlight penetrated the room, and a light
wind blowing in from outside gently stirred the mosquito curtains over
the bed. Liu tiptoed to the bed, and with infinite care drew the
netting aside and stood surveying his victim. Rivers lay quite still
with arms outstretched, fat and bloated, breathing with hoarse,
blowing sounds, quite repulsive. The moonlight was sufficient to
enable Liu to see the dark outline upon the bed, and to gauge where
he would strike. He hovered over his victim, exultant, prolonging from
minute to minute this strange, new feeling of power and dominance.
That was what it meant to be a white man--to feel this feeling
always--always--all one's life, not merely for a few brief,
exhilarating moments! And with that feeling of power and dominance was
the ability to inflict pain, horrible, frightful pain. That also was
part of the white man's heritage, this ability to inflict pain and
suffering at will. And after that, death. Liu also had the power to
inflict death. Leaning over the bed, with the long, keen knife in his
steady clutch, he was for those glorious moments the equal of the
white man! He prolonged his sensations breathlessly--this sense of
superb power, this superb ability to inflict humiliation, pain and
death.
A mosquito lit on Rivers' blotched cheek, and he raised a heavy arm to
brush it away. Then he relaxed again with a snore. Liu paused,
waiting. The glorious exaltation was mounting higher. It occurred to
him to sharpen these sensations, to heighten them. After all, he was
about to kill a drunken man in a drunken sleep. He wanted something
better. He wanted to feel his power over a conscious man, a man
conscious and aware of what was to befall him. Even as his father had
been conscious and aware of what was befalling him, even as thousands
of his countrymen were awake and aware, knowing what was being done to
them--by the dominant race. He wished Rivers awake and aware. It
involved greater risk, but it was worth it. Therefore, with the point
of his sharp, keen knife, he gently prodded the throat of the sleeper,
lying supine before him under the moon rays. Gently, very gently, he
prodded the exposed throat, placed the point of his knife very gently
upon his heaving, corded larynx, which pulsed inward and outward under
the heaving, stertorous breaths. Gently he stimulated the corded,
puffing throat, gently, with the point of his sharp knife.
The result was as he wished. First Rivers stirred, moved a restless
arm, flopped an impotent, heavy arm that fell back upon the pillow, an
arm that failed to reach its objective, to quell the tickling, cold
point prodded into his throat. Then as he slowly grew conscious, the
movements of the arm became more coordinated. Into his drunken mind
came the fixed sensation of a disturbance at his throat. He became
conscious, opened a heavy eye, and fixed it upon Liu, without at the
same time feeling the pressing point at his throat. Liu saw his
returning consciousness, and leaning over him, pressed upon his
throat, ever so lightly, the point of his long knife. Thus for a
moment or two they regarded each other, Liu having the advantage. But
so it had always been. Having the advantage was one of the attributes
of the dominant race. Thus for those few brief seconds, Liu
experienced the whole glory of it. And as little by little Rivers
emerged from the drunken to the conscious, to the abjectly, cravenly
conscious, so Liu mounted to the heights.
Then he saw that Rivers was about to cry out. To let forth a roaring
bellow, a howling bellow. Enough. He had tasted the whole of it. He
had felt, for prolonged and glorious moments, the feelings of the
superior race. Therefore he drove home, silently, his sharp, keen
knife, and stifled the mad bellow that was about to be let forth.
After which, he crept very cautiously to the balcony, and peered
anxiously up and down the dark alleyway beneath. He lowered himself
with infinite caution over the railing. He had become once more the
cringing Oriental.
HOMESICK
III
HOMESICK
A Chinese gentleman, with his arms tucked up inside the brocaded
sleeves of his satin coat, stood one day with one foot in China and
the other upon European soil. From time to time he bore with alternate
weight upon the right foot, on Chinese soil, and then upon the left
foot, upon European soil, and his mental attitude shifted from right
to left accordingly. The foot upon Chinese soil reflected upward to
his brain the restriction of Chinese laws, the breaking of which were
accompanied by heavy penalties. The foot upon European soil reassured
him as to his ability to indulge himself, with no penalties
whatsoever. Therefore, after balancing himself for a few moments first
upon this foot, then upon that, he gave way to his inclinations and
resolved to indulge them. In certain matters, Europeans were more
liberal than Chinese.
From this you will see that he had been standing with one foot in
China, where opium traffic was prohibited, where heavy fines were
attached to opium smoking and to opium buying, where heavy jail
sentences were imposed upon those who smoked or bought opium, while
the other foot, planted upon the ground of the Foreign Concession,
assured him of his absolute freedom to buy opium in any quantity he
chose, and to smoke himself to a standstill in an opium den licensed
under European auspices. In his saner moments, when not under the
influence of the drug, he resented the European occupation of certain
parts of Chinese territory, but when his craving for opium
occurred--which it did with great frequency--he was delighted to
realise that there were certain parts of China not under the authority
of the drastic laws of China, which laws prohibited with such drastic
and heavy penalties the indulgences he craved. Therefore he swayed
himself backwards and forwards for a space, first upon this foot, then
upon that, and finally withdrew both feet into the Foreign Concession,
and directed his steps to a shop where opium was sold under European
influence. The shop was capacious but dark. He stated his requirements
and they were measured out to him--a large keg was withdrawn from its
place on a shelf, and a gentle Chinese, clad, like himself, in satin
brocade, dug into the contents of the keg with a ladle and withdrew
from it a black, molasses-like substance, which ran slowly and gummily
from the ladle into the small silver box which the customer had
produced. The box finally filled, with some of the gummy, black
contents running over the edges, our gentleman withdrew himself,
having accomplished his purpose. Tucked into the security of his belt,
it was impossible to detect the contraband as he again stepped over
the boundary line which separated Chinese from European soil.
Half an hour after our Chinese gentleman had stepped across the
boundary line into the native city, with a large supply of opium
concealed in his belt, part of which he would retail to certain
friends who had not time enough to run across into the European
concession to buy it for themselves, a young Englishman stood, by
curious coincidence, upon the same spot recently occupied by the
Chinese. He also stood with one foot upon Chinese soil, with the
other upon the soil of the Foreign Concession, and regretted, with
considerable vehemence, that at this dividing line his efforts must
cease. He had been pursuing, for perhaps a mile, the proprietor of a
certain gambling den, whom he wished to apprehend. But at the boundary
line, which the Chinese had reached before him, his prey had escaped.
He was off somewhere, safe in the devious lanes and burrows of the
native city. Therefore he stood baffled, and finally made his way back
into the Settlement, along the quais, and finally reached his rooms.
He pondered somewhat over the situation. That which was permitted on
Chinese territory, was prohibited in the foreign holdings--and the
reverse. It just depended whether you were on this side the line or
that, as to whether or not you were a lawbreaker. Morality appeared
arbitrary, determined by geographical lines--a matter of dollars and
cents. Lawson walked slowly along the Bund, turning the matter over in
his rather limited mind. Take the opium business, he considered. The
Chinese considered it harmful, and wished to abolish it. Very good.
Yet the Foreign Concessions made money out of it and insisted upon
selling it.
Take another example, he reflected--gambling, his job. Or rather, his
job was the suppression of gambling--in the foreign holdings. The
Chinese considered it harmless, a matter of individual inclination.
Very good. But the foreigners considered it a vice, and he, Lawson,
was appointed to run to earth Chinese fan-tan houses, in the
Concession, and suppress them. Yet his own people, the foreigners,
gambled freely and uproariously in their own establishments--at the
races, and at certain houses which they maintained for their pleasure.
True, these houses were not in the Concession--for some reason the
foreigners had set their face against gambling in the Concession--yet
they maintained their establishments, their showy and luxurious
establishments, outside the Concession and upon Chinese soil. They
must pay a handsome squeeze for the privilege. Yet it was difficult to
reconcile. What was right and wrong, anyway? What was moral or
immoral, anyway? Lawson, of very limited intelligence, walked along,
sorely puzzled. Sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander--well, two
very different kinds of sauces, composed of very different
ingredients, as far as he could see. Lawson, being a young man of
limited intelligence, was greatly puzzled. He had been greatly
bothered over this for a long time. It began to look to him--very
vaguely--as if morality was not an abstract but a concrete affair.
Just then he passed an opium shop, and considered again. That surely
was a nasty game, yet his Government encouraged it--and made money
from it. But the Chinese, on their side of the boundary line, were
doing their best to suppress it. It was very difficult for them to
make headway, however, since opium shops flourished and were
encouraged by the foreign concessions, over which the Chinese had no
control. Topsy turvy, anyway. No wonder a person like Lawson was
unable to understand it. It all resolved itself into a question of
money, after all. For after all, money was the main object of life,
whether on the part of an individual or of a government. And since all
governments were composed of individuals, and reflected the ideas of
individuals, there you were!
By this time, young Lawson had become quite bored with life in the Far
East. The romance was gone and it offered so little variety. One day
was so like another, and every day, winter and summer, it was the same
thing or the same sorts of things, and there was an intense sameness
about it all. By day he did his work--that goes without saying--one
has to work in the Far East, that is what one comes out to do.
Otherwise, why come? Unless one is a tourist or a missionary, or a
buyer of Chinese antiques, or has had an overwhelming desire to write
a book upon international politics, a desire springing from the depths
of gross ignorance. But after all, why not such a book? It reaches, if
it reaches at all, a public still less informed, and misinformation is
as valuable as no information at all, when we desire to interfere with
the destiny of the Chinese. In his leisure moments, Lawson had tried
his hand at such a book--until he suddenly realised that he had been
in the Orient too long to make it a success. He knew just a trifle too
much about affairs, and found himself setting forth facts which would
lead to his undoing, as a minor official in the International
Settlement--if he gave them publicity. He could not afford to lose his
position. And he was by no means sure that the deep, unerring sense of
justice, the innate instinct of the masses, would rally to his
support. He had his own opinion of the ruling classes, but he trusted
the masses still less.
It was a biting cold night, with a high wind from the north howling
down the long streets and whipping the waters of the harbour into a
fury. Junks strained at their anchors, tossed and heaved, and now and
then one broke loose from its moorings and wandered about adrift,
spreading infinite terror amongst the owners of other junks, who
feared for their safety. A cruiser or two lay in the roads, and the
French mail, and two or three Japanese cargo-boats, and half a dozen
tramp ships from the China Coast, but none of these were unduly
buffeted by the gale, which only created havoc among the junks and
sampans. Lawson's lodgings overlooked the harbour, and he laid down
his pen and moved from the table to the dark window, trying in vain to
see what was going on without. Below, the long line of the quais was
outlined by long rows of electric lights, swaying and tossing from
their poles, and illuminating the shining, wet asphalt of the Bund. He
was very, very tired of it all. So many years he had been out, and the
same monotonous round must be gone through with, over and over again,
day after day--until he made money enough to return home. And as a
salaried clerk, a court runner, whose duty it was to enforce the laws
against gambling in the Settlement, that day seemed very far distant
indeed. Whenever he heard of a fan-tan place--and he heard of them
every day--he must investigate, see that it was closed and the
keepers, if he was lucky enough to catch them, duly punished. And the
players as well. Now to eradicate gambling from amongst the Chinese is
a difficult task, futile and ridiculous, a good waste of time and
money. He wondered why his Government should attempt it. Foolish thing
for his Government to do--yet what would become of Lawson if the
undertaking were abolished? Taste tea, probably--apprentice himself to
some tea merchant, and learn all the nasty rôle of tea spitting. From
which you will see that Lawson was squeamish about some things, and
did not envy those of his friends who had become tea tasters, and who
moved all day up and down a long table, filled with rows of stupid
little cups, with an attendant China boy forever shoving a cuspidor
from one advanced position to another. And if not a tea taster, then
some commercial house would absorb his energies, which would be worse
still--close at his elbow a spectacled Chinese clicking all day upon a
dirty little abacus,--checking him up, keeping tabs on him.
No, the work he had was better. But he was so tired of it. He leaned
himself against the dripping, cold pane, and regarded the lights
below, shining on the wet asphalt of the quais. He was thirty years
old and ten years in the East had about done for him. The East does,
for many people. Yes, he reflected bitterly, it had about done for
him. It undermines people, in some mysterious manner, and in Lawson's
case there had been so little to undermine. He had little imagination,
and could never imagine the larger possibilities of life, and what he
had missed, therefore the undermining of his character was of small
account. He was only conscious of an intense boredom, and to-night
the boredom was accentuated, because of the weather. He was too inert
to splash about in such a driving rain in quest of a friend more weary
than himself.
If he could just get out of it all! By which, understand, he had not
the adventurous spirit of the beach-comber, the adventurer who combs
pleasure and profits from the ports of the China Coast. He wasn't that
sort. He had no desire to take a sampan and row out to the nearest
cargo-boat and ship away to the Southern Seas, and sink himself in
romance north or south of the Line. No, the mystery of the East, the
romance of foreign lands made no appeal to him. And the everlasting
monotony of his daily work, of his daily association with his few
wearied friends, clerks and suchlike, all minor and unimportant cogs
of the big machine overseas, offered him nothing. Very decidedly he
was homesick. But his tired mind came upon a blank wall--he had no
home to be homesick for. Nothing compelling, nothing to return to--all
broken up long ago, such as it was, long before he had come out to the
Orient. Yet he was longing for the sight of his native land again.
Yes, that was it--just the familiar sight of it. It offered him
nothing in the way of tie or kin, yet he was longing to see it again,
just his own native land. He was exiled in China--and he was exiled at
Home, when you got down to it--but to-night his home land drew him
with overwhelming insistence.
What can you do, I'd like to know, when you are like this? Along the
outskirts of the Settlement stood big houses, cheerful with lights,
with home life, with all that the successful ones had brought out from
Home, to establish Home in the Orient. But Lawson had nothing to do
with these, with all the pompous, successful ones, who ignored him
completely and were unaware of his existence. They were all superior
to him, with the superiority that new-found money brings, and they
looked down upon him as a cheap court runner, told off to round up the
fan-tan playing Chinese. You see, Lawson was common--he had sprung
from nothing and was nothing. But these others, these successful ones,
they too had sprung from nothing, but out here in the Orient they had
become important. Through the possession of certain qualities which
Lawson did not possess, they had become large and prominent in the
community. They referred to themselves, among each other, as "younger
sons." Which left one to infer that they were of distinguished
lineage. But Lawson knew better, and knew it with great bitterness.
Like himself, they were indeed "younger sons"--of greengrocers.
Therefore, for that reason perhaps, they went home seldom, for at home
they were nobodies. Whereas out here--oh, out here, by reason of
certain qualities which Lawson did not possess, they were important
and pompous, and lived in big houses, with lights and guests and
servants and motors. Therefore Lawson resented them, because they
thought he was common. And he was common, he admitted bitterly, but so
were they. Only they were successful, by reason of certain qualities
which he did not possess. They ignored him, and left him alone in the
community, and it is never very good to be too much alone, especially
in the Far East. True, they provided him with his job--with his
wretchedly paid little Government job, which they maintained for no
altruistic or moral reasons. To suppress gambling amongst the
Chinese? Perhaps. Incidentally, on the surface, it looked well. Looked
well, he considered, coming from those who never helped the Chinese in
anything else. Who exploited them, in all possible ways, and
undermined them--undermined the Chinese who were pretty well done for
anyway, by nature, being Chinese. No, he reflected savagely--he had
heard the story--one night some big personage living in one of the big
houses, to which he was never invited--had given a big dinner, with
much wine and fine food and many guests and all the rest of it--and
what happened? No servants, or rather many servants without liveries
or clothing of any kind, everything having been pawned the evening
before over the fan-tan tables. Therefore he, Lawson, was employed by
Government to suppress these gambling houses, to keep the servants
from stealing and pawning their liveries, making embarrassment in the
big, foreign-style houses, making amusement and consternation and
scandal. He had happened along shortly after this affair, and so
obtained the appointment.
Lawson leaned his forehead against the cold glass, down which the rain
poured in sheets. The lights of the French mail glimmered
intermittently through the darkness--to-morrow she would weigh anchor
and be off for Marseilles, for Home. Not that he had a home, as we
have said, but he longed for the familiar look of things, for the
crowds all speaking his own tongue, for the places he knew, the well
known street signs, and the big hoardings. And he couldn't go back. He
had not money enough to go back. Every penny of his little salary went
for living expenses and living comes high in China. To say nothing of
the passage money and the money for afterwards---- A gentle cough
behind him made him turn round in a hurry. His China-boy stood
expectantly in the doorway.
"What is it?" demanded Lawson sharply. Ah Chang drew in his breath,
not wishing to breathe upon his superior. The indrawn, hissing noise
irritated Lawson immensely. He had been out ten years, and in that
time had never learned that Ah Chang and the others were showing him
respect, deep proofs of Oriental respect, when they sucked in their
breath with that hissing noise, to avoid breathing upon a superior. To
Lawson it was just another horrid trait, another horrid native
characteristic.
"Man come see Master," observed Ah Chang, addressing space
impersonally. "Heap plenty important business. You see?"
Anything for a change this dreary evening. "Very well," said Lawson,
"I see."