"Well, by the number of books you have I take it that you get a certain
amount of time for reading."
"I very seldom read," he answered with abruptness, in a voice that I
knew already was not quite his own.
I was puzzled. There was something odd about the man. At last, as was
inevitable, I suppose, he began to talk of the Chinese. Mrs. Wingrove
said the same things about them that I had already heard so many
missionaries say. They were a lying people, untrustworthy, cruel, and
dirty, but a faint light was visible in the East; though the results
of missionary endeavour were not very noteworthy as yet, the future
was promising. They no longer believed in their old gods and the power
of the literati was broken. It is an attitude of mistrust and dislike
tempered by optimism. But Mr. Wingrove mitigated his wife's strictures.
He dwelt on the good-nature of the Chinese, on their devotion to their
parents and on their love for their children.
"Mr. Wingrove won't hear a word against the Chinese," said his wife,
"he simply loves them."
"I think they have great qualities," he said. "You can't walk through
those crowded streets of theirs without having that impressed on you."
"I don't believe Mr. Wingrove notices the smells," his wife laughed.
At that moment there was a knock at the door and a young woman came in.
She had the long skirts and the unbound feet of the native Christian,
and on her face a look that was at once cringing and sullen. She said
something to Mrs. Wingrove. I happened to catch sight of Mr. Wingrove's
face. When he saw her there passed over it an expression of the most
intense physical repulsion, it was distorted as though by an odour that
nauseated him, and then immediately it vanished and his lips twitched
to a pleasant smile; but the effort was too great and he showed only a
tortured grimace. I looked at him with amazement. Mrs. Wingrove with an
"excuse me" got up and left the room.
"That is one of our teachers," said Mr. Wingrove in that same set voice
which had a little puzzled me before. "She's invaluable. I put infinite
reliance on her. She has a very fine character."
Then, I hardly know why, in a flash I saw the truth; I saw the disgust
in his soul for all that his will loved. I was filled with the
excitement which an explorer may feel when after a hazardous journey he
comes upon a country with features new and unexpected. Those tortured
eyes explained themselves, the unnatural voice, the measured restraint
with which he praised, that air he had of a hunted man. Notwithstanding
all he said he hated the Chinese with a hatred beside which his wife's
distaste was insignificant. When he walked through the teeming streets
of the city it was an agony to him, his missionary life revolted him,
his soul was like the raw shoulders of the coolies and the carrying
pole burnt the bleeding wound. He would not go home because he could
not bear to see again what he cared for so much, he would not read his
books because they reminded him of the life he loved so passionately,
and perhaps he had married that vulgar wife in order to cut himself off
more resolutely from a world that his every instinct craved for. He
martyred his tortured soul with a passionate exasperation.
I tried to see how the call had come. I think that for years he had
been completely happy in his easy ways at Oxford; and he had loved
his work, with its pleasant companionship, his books, his holidays in
France and Italy. He was a contented man and asked nothing better than
to spend the rest of his days in just such a fashion; but I know not
what obscure feeling had gradually taken hold of him that his life
was too lazy, too contented; I think he was always a religious man
and perhaps some early belief, instilled into him in childhood and
long forgotten, of a jealous God who hated his creatures to be happy
on earth, rankled in the depths of his heart; I think because he was
so well satisfied with his life he began to think it was sinful. A
restless anxiety seized him. Whatever he thought with his intelligence
his instincts began to tremble with the dread of eternal punishment. I
do not know what put the idea of China into his head, but at first he
must have thrust it aside with violent repulsion; and perhaps the very
violence of his repulsion impressed the idea on him, for he found it
haunting him. I think he said that he would not go, but I think he felt
that he would have to. God was pursuing him and wherever he hid himself
God followed. With his reason he struggled, but with his heart he was
caught. He could not help himself. At least he gave in.
I knew I should never see him again and I had not the time to spend on
the commonplaces of conversation before a reasonable familiarity would
permit me to talk of more intimate matters. I seized the opportunity
while we were still alone.
"Tell me," I said, "do you believe God will condemn the Chinese to
eternal punishment if they don't accept Christianity?"
I am sure my question was crude and tactless, for the old man in him
tightened his lips. But nevertheless he answered.
"The whole teaching of the gospel forces one to that conclusion. There
is not a single argument which people have adduced to the contrary
which has the force of the plain words of Jesus Christ."
XII
THE PICTURE
I do not know whether he was a mandarin bound for the capital of the
province, or some student travelling to a seat of learning, nor what
the reason that delayed him in the most miserable of all the miserable
inns in China. Perhaps one or other of his bearers, hidden somewhere
to smoke a pipe of opium (for it is cheap in that neighborhood and
you must be prepared for trouble with your coolies) could not be
found. Perhaps a storm of torrential rain had held him for an hour an
unwilling prisoner.
The room was so low that you could easily touch the rafters with your
hand. The mud walls were covered with dirty whitewash, here and there
worn away, and all round on wooden pallets were straw beds for the
coolies who were the inn's habitual guests. The sun alone enabled
you to support the melancholy squalor. It shone through the latticed
window, a beam of golden light, and threw on the trodden earth of the
floor a pattern of an intricate and splendid richness.
And here to pass an idle moment he had taken his stone tablet and
mixing a little water with the stick of ink which he rubbed on it,
seized the fine brush with which he executed the beautiful characters
of the Chinese writing (he was surely proud of his exquisite
calligraphy and it was a welcome gift which he made his friends when
he sent them a scroll on which was written a maxim, glitteringly
compact, of the divine Confucius) and with a bold hand he drew on the
wall a branch of plum-blossom and a bird perched on it. It was done
very lightly, but with an admirable ease; I know not what happy chance
guided the artist's touch, for the bird was all a-quiver with life and
the plum-blossoms were tremulous on their stalks. The soft airs of
spring blew through the sketch into that sordid chamber, and for the
beating of a pulse you were in touch with the Eternal.
XIII
HER BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S REPRESENTATIVE
He was a man of less than middle height, with stiff brown hair _en
brosse_, a little toothbrush moustache, and glasses through which
his blue eyes, looking at you aggressively, were somewhat distorted.
There was a defiant perkiness in his appearance which reminded you of
the cock-sparrow, and as he asked you to sit down and inquired your
business, meanwhile sorting the papers littered on his desk as though
you had disturbed him in the midst of important affairs, you had the
feeling that he was on the look out for an opportunity to put you in
your place. He had cultivated the official manner to perfection. You
were the public, an unavoidable nuisance, and the only justification
for your existence was that you did what you were told without argument
or delay. But even officials have their weakness and somehow it chanced
that he found it very difficult to bring any business to an end without
confiding his grievance to you. It appeared that people, missionaries
especially, thought him supercilious and domineering. He assured you
that he thought there was a great deal of good in missionaries; it is
true that many of them were ignorant and unreasonable, and he didn't
like their attitude; in his district most of them were Canadians, and
personally he didn't like Canadians; but as for saying that he put
on airs of superiority (he fixed his pince-nez more firmly on his
nose) it was monstrously untrue. On the contrary he went out of his
way to help them, but it was only natural that he should help them in
his way rather than in theirs. It was hard to listen to him without
a smile, for in every word he said you felt how exasperating he must
be to the unfortunate persons over whom he had control. His manner
was deplorable. He had developed the gift of putting up your back
to a degree which is very seldom met with. He was in short a vain,
irritable, bumptious, and tiresome little man.
During the revolution, while a lot of firing was going on in the
city between the rival factions, he had occasion to go to the
Southern general on official business connected with the safety of
his nationals, and on his way through the yamen he came across three
prisoners being led out to execution. He stopped the officer in charge
of the firing party and finding out what was about to happen vehemently
protested. These were prisoners of war and it was barbarity to kill
them. The officer--very rudely, in the consul's words--told him that he
must carry out his orders. The consul fired up. He wasn't going to let
a confounded Chinese officer talk to him in that way. An altercation
ensued. The general informed of what was occurring sent out to ask
the consul to come in to him, but the consul refused to move till the
prisoners, three wretched coolies green with fear, were handed over to
his safe-keeping. The officer waved him aside and ordered his firing
squad to take aim. Then the consul--I can see him fixing his glasses
on his nose and his hair bristling fiercely--then the consul stepped
forwards between the levelled rifles and the three miserable men, and
told the soldiers to shoot and be damned. There was hesitation and
confusion. It was plain that the rebels did not want to shoot a British
consul. I suppose there was a hurried consultation. The three prisoners
were given over to him and in triumph the little man marched back to
the consulate.
"Damn it, Sir," he said furiously, "I almost thought the blighters
would have the confounded cheek to shoot me."
They are strange people the British. If their manners were as good
as their courage is great they would merit the opinion they have of
themselves.
XIV
THE OPIUM DEN
On the stage it makes a very effective set. It is dimly lit. The room
is low and squalid. In one corner a lamp burns mysteriously before a
hideous image and incense fills the theatre with its exotic scent. A
pig-tailed Chinaman wanders to and fro, aloof and saturnine, while on
wretched pallets lie stupefied the victims of the drug. Now and then
one of them breaks into frantic raving. There is a highly dramatic
scene where some poor creature, unable to pay for the satisfaction of
his craving, with prayers and curses begs the villainous proprietor for
a pipe to still his anguish. I have read also in novels descriptions
which made my blood run cold. And when I was taken to an opium den
by a smooth-spoken Eurasian the narrow, winding stairway up which he
led me prepared me sufficiently to receive the thrill I expected. I
was introduced into a neat enough room, brightly lit, divided into
cubicles the raised floor of which, covered with clean matting, formed
a convenient couch. In one an elderly gentleman, with a grey head
and very beautiful hands, was quietly reading a newspaper, with his
long pipe by his side. In another two coolies were lying, with a pipe
between them, which they alternately prepared and smoked. They were
young men, of a hearty appearance, and they smiled at me in a friendly
way. One of them offered me a smoke. In a third four men squatted over
a chess-board, and a little further on a man was dandling a baby (the
inscrutable Oriental has a passion for children) while the baby's
mother, whom I took to be the landlord's wife, a plump, pleasant-faced
woman, watched him with a broad smile on her lips. It was a cheerful
spot, comfortable, home-like, and cosy. It reminded me somewhat of the
little intimate beer-houses of Berlin where the tired working man could
go in the evening and spend a peaceful hour. Fiction is stranger than
fact.
XV
THE LAST CHANCE
It was pathetically obvious that she had come to China to be married,
and what made it almost tragic was that not a single man in the treaty
port was ignorant of the fact. She was a big woman with an ungainly
figure; her hands and feet were large; she had a large nose, indeed
all her features were large; but her blue eyes were fine. She was
perhaps a little too conscious of them. She was a blonde and she was
thirty. In the daytime when she wore sensible boots, a short skirt,
and a slouch hat, she was personable; but in the evening, in blue silk
to enhance the colour of her eyes, in a frock cut by heaven knows what
suburban dressmaker from the models in an illustrated paper, when she
set herself out to be alluring she was an object that made you horribly
ill-at-ease. She wished to be all things to all unmarried men. She
listened brightly while one of them talked of shooting and she listened
gaily when another talked of the freight on tea. She clapped her hands
with girlish excitement when they discussed the races which were to
be run next week. She was desperately fond of dancing, with a young
American, and she made him promise to take her to a baseball match; but
dancing wasn't the only thing she cared for (you can have too much of a
good thing) and, with the elderly, but single, taipan of an important
firm, what she simply loved was a game of golf. She was willing to be
taught billiards by a young man who had lost his leg in the war and she
gave her sprightly attention to the manager of a bank who told her what
he thought of silver. She was not much interested in the Chinese, for
that was a subject which was not very good form in the circles in which
she found herself, but being a woman she could not help being revolted
at the way in which Chinese women were treated.
"You know, they don't have a word to say about who they're going to
marry," she explained. "It's all arranged by go-betweens and the man
doesn't even see the girl till he's married her. There's no romance or
anything like that. And as far as love goes ..."
Words failed her. She was a thoroughly good-natured creature. She would
have made any of those men, young or old, a perfectly good wife. And
she knew it.
XVI
THE NUN
The convent lay white and cool among the trees on the top of a hill;
and as I stood at the gateway, waiting to be let in, I looked down
at the tawny river glittering in the sunlight and at the rugged
mountains beyond. It was the Mother Superior who received me, a placid,
sweet-faced lady with a soft voice and an accent which told me that
she came from the South of France. She showed me the orphans who were
in her charge, busy at the lace-making which the nuns had taught them,
smiling shyly; and she showed me the hospital where lay soldiers
suffering from dysentery, typhoid, and malaria. They were squalid and
dirty. The Mother Superior told me she was a Basque. The mountains
that she looked out on from the convent windows reminded her of the
Pyrenees. She had been in China for twenty years. She said that it was
hard sometimes never to see the sea; here on the great river they were
a thousand miles away from it; and because I knew the country where she
was born she talked to me a little of the fine roads that led over the
mountains--ah, they did not have them here in China--and the vineyards
and the pleasant villages with their running streams that nestled at
the foot of the hills. But the Chinese were good people. The orphans
were very quick with their fingers and they were industrious; the
Chinese sought them as wives because they had learnt useful things in
the convent, and even after they were married they could earn a little
money by their needles. And the soldiers too, they were not so bad as
people said; after all _les pauvres petits_, they did not want to be
soldiers; they would much sooner be at home working in the fields.
Those whom the sisters had nursed through illness were not devoid
of gratitude. Sometimes when they were coming along in a chair and
overtook two nuns who had been in the town to buy things and were laden
with parcels, they would offer to take their parcels in the chair. _Au
fond_, they were not bad hearted.
"They do not go so far as to get out and let the nuns ride in their
stead?" I asked.
"A nun in their eyes is only a woman," she smiled indulgently. "You
must not ask from people more than they are capable of giving."
How true, and yet how hard to remember!
XVII
HENDERSON
It was very hard to look at him without a chuckle, for his appearance
immediately told you all about him. When you saw him at the club,
reading _The London Mercury_ or lounging at the bar with a gin and
bitters at his elbow (no cocktails for him) his unconventionality
attracted your attention; but you recognised him at once, for he was a
perfect specimen of his class. His unconventionality was exquisitely
conventional. Everything about him was according to standard, from his
square-toed, serviceable boots to his rather long, untidy hair. He wore
a loose low collar that showed a thick neck and loose, somewhat shabby
but well-cut clothes. He always smoked a short briar pipe. He was
very humorous on the subject of cigarettes. He was a biggish fellow,
athletic, with fine eyes and a pleasant voice. He talked fluently.
His language was often obscene, not because his mind was impure, but
because his bent was democratic. As you guessed by the look of him he
drank beer (not in fact but in the spirit) with Mr. Chesterton and
walked the Sussex downs with Mr. Hilaire Belloc. He had played football
at Oxford, but with Mr. Wells he despised the ancient seat of learning.
He looked upon Mr. Bernard Shaw as a little out of date, but he had
still great hopes of Mr. Granville Barker. He had had many serious
talks with Mr. and Mrs. Sydney Webb, and he was a member of the Fabian
Society. The only point where he touched upon the same world as the
frivolous was his appreciation of the Russian Ballet. He wrote rugged
poems about prostitutes, dogs, lamp-posts, Magdalen College, public
houses and country vicarages. He held English, French, and Americans
in scorn; but on the other hand (he was no misanthropist) he would not
listen to a word in dispraise of Tamils, Bengalis, Kaffirs, Germans, or
Greeks. At the club they thought him rather a wild fellow.
"A socialist, you know," they said.
But he was junior partner in a well-known and respectable firm, and
one of the peculiarities of China is that your position excuses your
idiosyncrasies. It may be notorious that you beat your wife, but if
you are manager of a well-established bank the world will be civil to
you and ask you to dinner. So when Henderson announced his socialistic
opinions they merely laughed. When he first came to Shanghai he refused
to use the jinrickshaw. It revolted his sense of personal dignity that
a man, a human being no different from himself, should drag him hither
and thither. So he walked. He swore it was good exercise and it kept
him fit; besides, it gave him a thirst he wouldn't sell for twenty
dollars, and he drank his beer with gusto. But Shanghai is very hot and
sometimes he was in a hurry so now and again he was obliged to use the
degrading vehicle. It made him feel uncomfortable, but it was certainly
convenient. Presently he came to use it frequently, but he always
thought of the boy between the shafts as a man and a brother.
He had been three years in Shanghai when I saw him. We had spent the
morning in the Chinese city, going from shop to shop and our rickshaw
boys were hot with sweat; every minute or two they wiped their
foreheads with ragged handkerchiefs. We were bound now for the club and
had nearly reached it when Henderson remembered that he wanted to get
Mr. Bertrand Russell's new book, which had just reached Shanghai. He
stopped the boys and told them to go back.
"Don't you think we might leave it till after luncheon?" I said. "Those
fellows are sweating like pigs."
"It's good for them," he answered. "You mustn't ever pay attention to
the Chinese. You see, we're only here because they fear us. We're the
ruling race."
I did not say anything. I did not even smile.
"The Chinese always have had masters and they always will."
A passing car separated us for a moment and when he came once more
abreast of me he had put the matter aside.
"You men who live in England don't know what it means to us when new
books get out here," he remarked. "I read everything that Bertrand
Russell writes. Have you seen the last one?"
"Roads to Freedom? Yes. I read it before I left England."
"I've read several reviews. I think he's got hold of some interesting
ideas."
I think Henderson was going to enlarge on them, but the rickshaw boy
passed the turning he should have taken.
"Round the corner, you bloody fool," cried Henderson, and to emphasize
his meaning he gave the man a smart kick on the bottom.
XVIII
DAWN
It is night still and the courtyard of the inn is rich with deep
patches of darkness. Lanterns throw fitful lights on the coolies busily
preparing their loads for the journey. They shout and laugh, angrily
argue with one another, and vociferously quarrel. I go out into the
street and walk along preceded by a boy with a lantern. Here and there
behind closed doors cocks are crowing. But in many of the shops the
shutters are down already and the indefatigable people are beginning
their long day. Here an apprentice is sweeping the floor, and there a
man is washing his hands and face. A wick burning in a cup of oil is
all his light. I pass a tavern where half a dozen persons are seated at
an early meal. The ward gate is closed, but a watchman lets me through
a postern and I walk along a wall by a sluggish stream in which are
reflected the bright stars. Then I reach the great gate of the city,
and this time one half of it is open; I pass out, and there, awaiting
me, all ghostly, is the dawn. The day and the long road and the open
country lie before me.
Put out the lantern. Behind me the darkness pales to a mist of purple
and I know that soon this will kindle to a rosy flush. I can make out
the causeway well enough and the water in the padi fields reflects
already a wan and shadowy light. It is no longer night, but it is not
yet day. This is the moment of most magical beauty, when the hills and
the valleys, the trees and the water, have a mystery which is not of
earth. For when once the sun has risen, for a time the world is very
cheerless, the light is cold and grey like the light in a painter's
studio, and there are no shadows to diaper the ground with a coloured
pattern. Skirting the brow of a wooded hill I look down on the padi
fields. But to call them fields is too grandiose. They are for the
most part crescent shaped patches built on the slope of a hill, one
below the other, so that they can be flooded. Firs and bamboos grow in
the hollows as though placed there by a skilful gardener with a sense
of ordered beauty to imitate formally the abandon of nature. In this
moment of enchantment you do not look upon the scene of humble toil,
but on the pleasure gardens of an emperor. Here throwing aside the
cares of state, he might come in yellow silk embroidered with dragons,
with jewelled bracelets on his wrists, to sport with a concubine so
beautiful that men in after ages felt it natural if a dynasty was
destroyed for her sake.