repeatedly with hands on knees. After which he passed his long slim
hands up into the sleeves of his satin coat, and waited quietly till
the boy withdrew. He gave a swift look about the room, a glance so
hurried that it seemed impossible he could have satisfied himself that
they were alone, and then began to speak. Lawson recognised him at
once as the keeper of a house he had raided the week before, a big,
crowded place, where the police had captured a score of players and
much money. It was an important haul, a notorious den, that they had
been after for a long time. Only it changed its location so often,
moved from place to place each night, or so it seemed, that Lawson had
spent months trying to find it. It is not easy finding such places in
the crowded, native streets of the Concession, and he had stumbled
upon it by a piece of sheer luck. And the proprietor had been heavily
fined and heavily warned, yet here he stood to-night, silent,
respectful, hands up his sleeves, waiting. For once in his life,
Lawson's imagination worked. He foresaw something portentous looming
in the background of that impenetrable mind, revealed in the steady,
unblinking stare of those slanting Chinese eyes, fixed steadily and
fearlessly and patiently upon his.
"Sit down," he commanded, with a sweep of his hand towards an upright
chair.
* * * * *
After his visitor had departed, Lawson stood lost in thought. He was
not angry, yet he should have been, he realised. Assuredly he should
have been angry, assuredly he should have kicked his visitor
downstairs. But as it was, he remained in deep thought, pondering over
a suggestion that had been made to him. The suggestion, stripped of
certain Oriental qualities of flowery phraseology and translated from
pidgin-English into business English, was the merest, most vague hint
of an exchange of favours. So slight was the hint, but so
overwhelming the possibilities suggested, that, as we have said,
Lawson had not kicked his visitor downstairs, but remained standing
lost in thought for several moments after his departure. As he had
stood earlier in the day, with one foot in the Foreign Concession, and
the other on Chinese soil, considering the different standards that
obtained in each, so he stood now, figuratively, on the boundary line
of an ethical problem and swayed mentally first towards one side and
then the other. The irony of it, the humour of it, appealed to him. It
seemed so insanely just--just what you might expect. He had been
asked--that was too definite a word--to forego his activities for a
few brief weeks. And during those few brief weeks he could repay
himself, week by week, on Friday nights----
He had been merely asked--too strong a word--the suggestion had been
merely hinted at--he balanced himself back and forth over the problem.
If his efforts during the next few weeks should prove fruitless,
possible enough, considering the wily race he was dealing with----And
in exchange, well, once a week on Friday night, he could slip outside
the boundaries of the Concession to a large, foreign gambling house
kept by and for his own people. By his own people, the Europeans, who
employed him to eradicate gambling from amongst the Chinese. Do you
wonder that he shifted himself back and forth, morally, first from
this point of view, then to that? His own people who objected to
gaming, when it involved the loss of their servants' liveries. But
they had no such scruples when it came to their own pleasure.
Therefore, for their own pleasure, careless of the inconsistency, they
had established a very fine place of their own just outside the
boundaries of the foreign Concession. Lawson had heard of the place
before--the most famous, the most notorious on the China Coast. Kept
by the son of a parson, so he had been told, a University graduate.
Once, ten years ago, he had gone there and lost a month's pay in an
evening. But now it was to be different. He could go there now, every
Friday night, and reap the reward of his inability to discover Chinese
dens within the Concession.
For nearly an hour he remained undecided, then determined to test the
offer made him--but offer was too strong a word. And his salary was
so meagre, so abominably small. And the people in the big houses would
have none of him, they never invited him, he was left so alone, to
himself. He was intensely homesick. Therefore, still on the boundary
line, he went to the telephone and called up a certain number. In a
confident manner he asked for a limousine. After which he got into his
overcoat, muffled himself up well around the ears and nose, for the
air outside was cold with a biting north wind, and the rain still
drove slantwise in torrents. In a few moments Ah Chang announced that
the calliage had come.
Round the earner from his lodgings on a side street and in darkness,
stood a big car with the motor puffing violently. It was a big,
handsome car, very long, and on the front seat sat two men in livery,
one of whom jumped down briskly to open the door. Lawson entered and
sank down into the soft cushions, for it was very luxurious. Then the
car moved on briskly, without any directions from himself, and he
leaned back upon the cushions and took pleasure in the luxury of it,
and of the two men in livery upon the front seat, and enjoyed the
pouring rain which dashed upon the glass, yet left him so dry and
comfortable within. "They will only think it's inconsistent--that's
all," he said to himself, "if they ever find out--which is unlikely."
Beyond the confines of the Settlement the motor rapidly made its way,
slipping noiselessly over the smooth, wet asphalt, and then out along
the bumpy roads beyond the city limits. All was dark now, the street
lamps having been left behind with the ending of the good roads, and
the car jolted along slowly, over deep ruts. A stretch of open country
intervened between the Settlement and a native village of clustering
mud huts. Lawson, having no imagination, was not impressed with his
position. People did all sorts of things in China, just as
elsewhere--only here, in China, it was so much easier to get away with
it. His coming to-night might be considered inconsistent, he repeated
over and over to himself, but nothing more. Every one did it, he
reassured himself.
The car stopped finally, before a pair of high, very solid black
gates, and the footman jumped off the box to open the door. He was
conscious of a small grill with a yellow face peeping out, backed by
flickering lantern light, of a rainy, windswept compound, with a shaft
of light from an open door flooding the courtyard. Then he was inside
a warm, bright anteroom, with an obsequious China-boy relieving him of
overcoat and muffler, and he became aware of many big, fur-lined
overcoats, hanging on pegs on the wall. Beyond, in the adjoining room,
were two long tables, the players seated with their backs to him,
absorbed. Only a few people were present, for the night was early.
There was no one there he knew--even had there been, he would not have
cared. He drew out a chair and seated himself confidently, while a
China-boy pushed a box of cigars towards him, a very good brand. And
behind came another boy with a tray of whisky and soda, while a third
boy carried sandwiches. It was all very well done, he thought
absently. The proprietor, being a parson's son and a University
graduate, did it very well. There was no disorder, it was all
beautifully done. He wondered what amount of squeeze the Chinese
received, for allowing such a fine place to remain undisturbed on
Chinese soil. A very big squeeze, certainly. They would surely be very
grasping, considering the warfare waged against them, upon their own
establishments, by the Europeans. It was all very interesting. Lawson
considered the matter critically, from various angles, knowing what he
knew. He sorted his chips carefully. It must pay the parson's son
well, he concluded, to be able to run such a fine place, in such
style, with so much to eat and drink and all, and with all those
motors to carry out the guests. All this in addition to the
squeeze--it must really be an enormous squeeze. And the people for
whose amusement this was established, were the people who were
employing him----
For a brief, fleeting second his eye rested upon the calm,
unquestioning face of the Chinese at the wheel, brother of the
proprietor of the fan-tan place he had raided a week ago. The placid
eye of the Oriental fixed his for the fraction of a second, even as he
called out the winning numbers. There was no recognition either way,
yet Lawson felt himself flushing. The wheel spun again and slowly
stopped, and he found himself gathering in thirty-five chips, raking
them in with eager fingers over the green cloth. It was all right
then, after all!
* * * * *
Lawson was going home. Speaking about this, some said, Well enough--he
has become quite incompetent of late. Getting stale, probably. Unable
to discover the obvious, losing his keenness. Ten years in the Far
East about does for one. But with Lawson, the situation was different.
He had become so tired of boundary lines, of perpetual swaying back
and forth from one side to the other, without conviction. Geographical
and moral concessions, wrong here, right there, had blurred his sense
of the abstract. All he was conscious of was an overwhelming desire to
leave it all and go home. And now he was going home. He was very glad.
It hurt to be so glad. He was going away from China, forever. He was
going back to his own land, where he was born, where he belonged, even
though there was no one to welcome his return. There was no roof to
receive him save an attic roof, rented for a few shillings a week. For
though he had plenty of money now, he still thought in small sums. He
was glad to be going home--the joy was painful. His chief praised him
a little at parting, and said he had done good work and hoped his
successor would do as well. Regretted his departure at this moment,
since that old fellow who kept such a notorious den was breaking loose
again, more villainous, more elusive than ever. Lawson heard this with
astonishment, with infinite regret. Wished he could have stayed to see
it ended.
He was going home. It hurt to be so glad. In all these years he had
been so utterly lonely, so utterly miserable. His few companions came
down to the landing stage on the Bund to see him off, to wish him
luck. They were rather wistful, for they also knew loneliness. They
had tried to forget about this longing for home in the many ways of
forgetfulness that the East offered, nevertheless they were wistful.
Lawson understood, he felt great pity for them. He advised them to get
away before they were done for, for the East does for many people in
the long run. The launch, waiting to take him down river where the
steamer lay anchored, grated against the steps of the landing stage,
as if eager to be off.
"I wish," said one of his friends, "that we had your luck--that we
too were going home."
Lawson's heart ached for them. He had experience but no imagination.
"Yes," he said simply, "it is very good to be going Home."
CIVILIZATION
IV
CIVILIZATION
I
Maubert leaned against the counter in his wine-shop, reading a paper
that had just come to him--an official looking paper, which he held
unsteadily, unwillingly, and which trembled a little between his big,
thick fingers. Behind the counter sat Madame Maubert, knitting. Before
her, ranged neatly on the zinc covered shelf, was a row of inverted
wine glasses, three of them still dripping, having been washed after
the last customers by a hasty dip into a bucket of cold water.
"Mobilised," said Maubert slowly. "I am mobilised--at last." Madame
Maubert looked up from her knitting. For a year now they had both been
expecting this, for the war had been going on for over a year, and
Maubert, while over age and below par in physical condition, was still
a man and as such likely to be called into the reserves. The two
exchanged glances.
"When?" asked Madame Maubert, resuming her clicking.
"At once, imbecile," replied her husband stolidly. "Naturally," he
continued, "when one is at last sent for, there can be no delay. I
must report at once."
"Oh, la la," said Madame Maubert, noncommittally.
Maubert glanced round his shop, his little wine-shop, his lucrative
little business that he had made successful. Very well. His wife must
run it alone now, as best she could. As best she could, that was
evident. She could do many things well. She must do it now while he
went forth into service of some kind--into a munition factory
probably, or perhaps near the front, as orderly to an officer, or as
sentinel, perhaps, along some road in the First Zone of the Armies. He
would not be placed on active service--he was too old for that.
Nevertheless it meant a horrid jarring out of his usual routine of
life, consequently he was angry and resentful, and there was no fine
glow of pride or patriotism or such-like feeling in his breast. Bah!
All that sort of thing had vanished from men long and long ago, after
the first few bitter weeks of war and of realisation of the meaning of
war. War was now an affair--a sordid, ugly affair, and Maubert knew it
as well as any man. Living in his backwater of a village, keeper of
the principal wine-shop of the village, his zinc counter rang every
night under emphatic fists, emphasising emphatic remarks about the
war, and the remarks were true but devoid of romance. They differed
considerably from the tone of the daily press.
From the kitchen beyond came the clattering of dishes, and some
talking in immature, childish voices, and the insistent, piping tones
of a quite young child. They were all in there, all four of them, the
eldest twelve, the youngest four, and Maubert and his wife leaned
across the zinc counter and looked at each other.
"It is your fault," he said slowly, with conviction. His eyes, deep
set, ugly, sunken, glared angrily into hers. "It is your fault that I
am mobilised."
She sat still, rather bewildered, gazing at him steadily. "You wished
it!" he began again, "You coward! You trembling coward!"
Still Madame Maubert made no sign, waiting further explanations. She
laid down her knitting and took her elbows in her hands, and by
gripping her elbows firmly, stopped the trembling he spoke of.
"You don't understand, eh?" he went on sneeringly. "Always thinking of
yourself, of your pretty figure, how to keep yourself always here at
the bar, pretty and attractive, ready to gossip with all comers.
Nothing must interrupt that. You'd done your share, all that was
necessary. And I--poor fool--I let you! I didn't insist--I gave
in----"
"You wish to say----?" began Madame Maubert at last, breaking her
silence.
"Yes! To say just that!" burst out Maubert. "Just that--you coward!
When you might have--when you might have--made _this_ out of the
question for me." He shook his order for mobilisation. Again there was
a noise from the kitchen, again the sound of many young voices, and
one voice that ended in a cry, an irritated, angry, querulous howl.
"I see," said Madame Maubert slowly, "five instead of four--five
would have made it safe for you--eh? I didn't think of that--at the
time."
"Of your own self at the time--as always!" ground out Maubert, very
angry. He was a very big man, of the bully type, with a red neck that
swelled under his anger, or on the occasions when he had taken too
much red wine--which meant that it swelled very often and made him a
great brute, and his wife disliked him, and tried to put the zinc
counter between them or anything else that gave shelter.
"You selfish coward!" he cried out again, and slammed his fist down,
and then raised it again and shook it at her, "You could have saved me
from this--this--being mobilised----! Five instead of four! Five
instead of four! Then I would have been exempt, no matter what
happened! You contemptible----"
He struck at his wife, but missed her. The doorway darkened and two
soldiers entered, limping.
"My husband is mobilised," exclaimed Madame Maubert quickly. "His
country needs him--he is rather elevated in consequence! Doubtless he
will be of the auxiliaries, where there is less danger. Discomfort,
perhaps, but less danger. Nevertheless he is regretful," she concluded
scornfully. The simple soldiers, home on leave, laughed uproariously.
They placed a few sous upon the counter and asked for wine, and drank
to Maubert solicitously. Then they all drank together, to one
another's good fortune, and to La Patrie.
II
Maubert was at the Front. Near it, that is, but in the First Zone of
the Armies and shut off from communication with the rear. He was shut
off from communication with his wife and family, isolated in a little
hut standing by the roadside, his sentry box. A little box of straw
standing upright on the roadside, and with just enough room for him
inside, also standing upright. No more. Whenever he heard the whir of
a motor coming down the road, he opened his front door and stood
squarely in the middle of the roadway, waving a red flag by day or a
lantern by night, and expecting, both night and day, to be run down
and killed by the onrushing motor. He flagged the ambulances and got
cursed for it. He flagged the General's car and got cursed for it.
Impossible pieces of paper were shoved out to him to read, filled with
unintelligible hieroglyphics, which he could not read, which he made a
vain pretence of reading and then concluded were all right. After
which the car or the ambulance dashed on again, and he communed with
himself within his hut, wondering whether the car was carrying a
uniformed spy, or whether the ambulance was carrying a spy hidden
under its brown wings, beneath the seat somewhere. It was all so
perplexing and precarious, this business of sentry duty. The papers
issued by the D.E.S. were so illegible. Sometimes they were blue,
sometimes pink, and the remarks written on them were such that no one
could understand or know what they were about. People had the right to
circulate by this road or that--and when they were trying to circulate
by a route not specified in the blue or pink paper, they always
explained glibly that it was because they had missed the way, and made
the wrong turning. It was all so perplexing. Whenever he stopped their
cars, the General was always so furiously impatient, and the
ambulance drivers were always so furiously impatient, and one asked
you if you did not respect the Army of France, and the other if you
did not respect the wounded of France, if you had no pity for them,
and must delay them--altogether it was very perplexing. Maubert always
had the impression that if he failed in his duties, if he let through
a general who wore stripes and medals galore, yet who was a spy
general, that he would be courtmartialed and shot. Or if he let
through an ambulance full of wounded--apparently--yet with a spy
concealed in the body--that he would be courtmartialed and shot.
Always he had in his mind this fear of being courtmartialed and shot,
and it made him very nervous, and he did not like to tell people that
he could barely read and write. Very barely able to read and write,
and totally unable to read the hieroglyphics written on the pink and
blue papers issued down the road by Headquarters, at the D.E.S. He
felt that some one ought to know these facts about himself, these
extenuating circumstances, in case of trouble. Yet he hesitated to
give himself away. Bad as it was, there were worse jobs than sentry
duty.
A little way down the road there was an _estaminet_, where he slept
when he could, where he spent his leisure hours, where he bought as
much wine as he could pay for. But his sentry box always confronted
him, which leaked when it rained, and the wind blew through it, and on
certain days, when there was much travel by the road, he hardly spent
a moment inside it but was always standing in the mud and wind of the
highway, waving his flag, and stopping impatient, snorting motors. And
always pretending that he could read the pink and blue papers, angrily
thrust out for his inspection. Too great a responsibility for one who
could barely read and write.
Came the time, eventually, for his leave. Five days permission. One
day to get to Paris. One day from Paris to his province. One day in
his province at home with his wife. One day back to Paris, one day to
get back to his sentry box in the First Zone of the Armies. Not much
time, all considered. He bought a bottle of wine at the _estaminet_,
and got aboard the train for Paris. Somewhere along the route came a
long stop, and he bought another bottle of wine--forty centimes.
Another stop, and another bottle of wine. He thought much of his wife
during these long hours of the journey--thoughts augmented and made
glowing by three bottles of wine. She wasn't so bad, after all.
The Gare Montparnasse was reached, and he got off, dizzily, to change
trains. He knew, vaguely, that to get to his province in the interior,
he must first somehow get to the Gare du Nord. There was a Métro
entrance somewhere about the Gare Montparnasse and he tried to find
it. The Métro would take him to the Gare du Nord. No good. Such crowds
of people all about, and they called him Mon Vieux, and pulled him
this way and that, laughing with him, offering him cigarettes and
happy comments, received by a brain in which three bottles of wine
were already fermenting. Thus it happened that he missed the Métro
entrance, and instead of finding a métro to take him to the Gare du
Nord, he missed the entrance, turned quite wrong, and walked up the
middle of the rue de la Gaiétè. And because of the three bottles of
wine within him--entirely within his head--he walked light-heartedly
up the rue de la Gaiétè, with his helmet tossed backwards on his
shaggy head, his heavy kit swinging in disordered fashion from his
shoulders, his mouth open, shouting meaningless things to the
passers-by, and his steps very short, jerky and unsteady. Thus it
happened, that many people, seeing him in this condition, shuddered,
and asked what France had come to, when she must place her faith in
such men as that. Other people, however, laughed at him, and made way
for him, or closed in on him and squeezed his arm, and whispered
things into his ears. Back and forth he ricochetted along the narrow
street, singing and swinging, mouth open, with strange, happy cries
coming from it. Some laughed and said what a pity, and others laughed
and said how perfectly natural and what could you expect.
Presently down the street came a big, double decked tramcar, and
Maubert stood in front of the tramcar, refusing to give way. It should
have presented a blue paper to him--or a pink paper--anyway, there he
stood in front of it, asking for its permission to circulate, and as
it had no permission, it stopped within an inch of running over him,
while the conductor leaned forward shouting curses. Then it was that
a firm but gentle hand inserted itself within Maubert's arm, while a
firm but gentle voice asked Maubert to be a good boy and come with
her. Maubert was very dazed, and also perplexed that he had not
received a paper from the big, double-decked tramcar, which obviously
had no right to circulate without such permission, sanctioned by
himself. He was gently drawn off the tracks, by that unknown arm,
while the big tramcar proceeded on its way without permission. It was
all wrong, yet Maubert felt himself drawn to one side of the roadway,
felt himself still propelled along by that gentle but firm arm, and
looked to see who was leading him. He was quite satisfied by what he
saw. The three bottles of wine made him very uncritical, but they also
inflamed certain other faculties. To these other faculties his
befogged mind gave quick response. To Hell with the tramcar, papers or
no papers, pink or blue. Also, although not quite so emphatically, he
relinquished all thoughts of arriving at the Gare du Nord, and of
finding a train to take him home to his province, where his wife
lived. The reasons that made him desire his wife, were quite
satisfied with the gentle pressure on his arm. Thus it happened that
big Maubert, shaggy and dirty and drunk, reeling down the rue de la
Gaiétè, very suddenly gave up all idea of finding his way to his
province in the interior.
Never mind about those three days in Paris. Maubert was quite sober
when he got on the train again at Montparnasse. He did not regret his
larger vacation. He had had a very good permission, take it all in
all.
III