want to believe the incredible. I have more use for American petroleum
than for American philosophy."
His judgments were tart. We sat down once more and drank another cup
of tea. He began to talk with fluency. He spoke a somewhat formal
but an idiomatic English. Now and then he helped himself out with a
German phrase. So far as it was possible for a man of that stubborn
character to be influenced he had been influenced by Germany. The
method and the industry of the Germans had deeply impressed him and
their philosophical acumen was patent to him when a laborious professor
published in a learned magazine an essay on one of his own writings.
"I have written twenty books," he said. "And that is the only notice
that has ever been taken of me in a European publication."
But his study of Western philosophy had only served in the end to
satisfy him that wisdom after all was to be found within the limits of
the Confucian canon. He accepted its philosophy with conviction. It
answered the needs of his spirit with a completeness which made all
foreign learning seem vain. I was interested in this because it bore
out an opinion of mine that philosophy is an affair of character rather
than of logic: the philosopher believes not according to evidence,
but according to his own temperament; and his thinking merely serves
to make reasonable what his instinct regards as true. If Confucianism
gained so firm a hold on the Chinese it is because it explained and
expressed them as no other system of thought could do.
My host lit a cigarette. His voice at first had been thin and tired,
but as he grew interested in what he said it gained volume. He talked
vehemently. There was in him none of the repose of the sage. He was a
polemist and a fighter. He loathed the modern cry for individualism.
For him society was the unit, and the family the foundation of society.
He upheld the old China and the old school, monarchy, and the rigid
canon of Confucius. He grew violent and bitter as he spoke of the
students, fresh from foreign universities, who with sacrilegious hands
tore down the oldest civilisation in the world.
"But you, do you know what you are doing?" he exclaimed. "What is the
reason for which you deem yourselves our betters? Have you excelled
us in arts or letters? Have our thinkers been less profound than
yours? Has our civilisation been less elaborate, less complicated,
less refined than yours? Why, when you lived in caves and clothed
yourselves with skins we were a cultured people. Do you know that we
tried an experiment which is unique in the history of the world? We
sought to rule this great country not by force, but by wisdom. And
for centuries we succeeded. Then why does the white man despise the
yellow? Shall I tell you? Because he has invented the machine gun.
That is your superiority. We are a defenceless horde and you can blow
us into eternity. You have shattered the dream of our philosophers
that the world could be governed by the power of law and order. And
now you are teaching our young men your secret. You have thrust your
hideous inventions upon us. Do you not know that we have a genius for
mechanics? Do you not know that there are in this country four hundred
millions of the most practical and industrious people in the world? Do
you think it will take us long to learn? And what will become of your
superiority when the yellow man can make as good guns as the white and
fire them as straight? You have appealed to the machine gun and by the
machine gun shall you be judged."
But at that moment we were interrupted. A little girl came softly
in and nestled close up to the old gentleman. She stared at me with
curious eyes. He told me that she was his youngest child. He put his
arms round her and with a murmur of caressing words kissed her fondly.
She wore a black coat and trousers that barely reached her ankles, and
she had a long pig-tail hanging down her back. She was born on the day
the revolution was brought to a successful issue by the abdication of
the emperor.
"I thought she heralded the Spring of a new era," he said. "She was but
the last flower of this great nation's Fall."
From a drawer in his roll-top desk he took a few cash, and handing them
to her, sent her away.
"You see that I wear a queue," he said, taking it in his hands. "It is
a symbol. I am the last representative of the old China."
He talked to me, more gently now, of how philosophers in long past
days wandered from state to state with their disciples, teaching all
who were worthy to learn. Kings called them to their councils and made
them rulers of cities. His erudition was great and his eloquent phrases
gave a multicoloured vitality to the incidents he related to me of
the history of his country. I could not help thinking him a somewhat
pathetic figure. He felt in himself the capacity to administer the
state, but there was no king to entrust him with office; he had vast
stores of learning which he was eager to impart to the great band of
students that his soul hankered after, and there came to listen but a
few, wretched, half-starved, and obtuse provincials.
Once or twice discretion had made me suggest that I should take my
leave, but he had been unwilling to let me go. Now at last I was
obliged to. I rose. He held my hand.
"I should like to give you something as a recollection of your visit to
the last philosopher in China, but I am a poor man and I do not know
what I can give you that would be worthy of your acceptance."
I protested that the recollection of my visit was in itself a priceless
gift. He smiled.
"Men have short memories in these degenerate days, and I should like to
give you something more substantial. I would give you one of my books,
but you cannot read Chinese."
He looked at me with an amicable perplexity. I had an inspiration.
"Give me a sample of your calligraphy," I said.
"Would you like that?" He smiled. "In my youth I was considered to
wield the brush in a manner that was not entirely despicable."
He sat down at his desk, took a fair sheet of paper, and placed it
before him. He poured a few drops of water on a stone, rubbed the ink
stick in it, and took his brush. With a free movement of the arm he
began to write. And as I watched him I remembered with not a little
amusement something else which had been told me of him. It appeared
that the old gentleman, whenever he could scrape a little money
together, spent it wantonly in the streets inhabited by ladies to
describe whom a euphemism is generally used. His eldest son, a person
of standing in the city, was vexed and humiliated by the scandal of
this behaviour; and only his strong sense of filial duty prevented him
from reproaching the libertine with severity. I daresay that to a son
such looseness would be disconcerting, but the student of human nature
could look upon it with equanimity. Philosophers are apt to elaborate
their theories in the study, forming conclusions upon life which they
know only at second hand, and it has seemed to me often that their
works would have a more definite significance if they had exposed
themselves to the vicissitudes which befall the common run of men. I
was prepared to regard the old gentleman's dalliance in hidden places
with leniency. Perhaps he sought but to elucidate the most inscrutable
of human illusions.
He finished. To dry the ink he scattered a little ash on the paper and
rising handed it to me.
"What have you written?" I asked.
I thought there was a slightly malicious gleam in his eyes.
"I have ventured to offer you two little poems of my own."
"I did not know you were a poet."
"When China was still an uncivilised country," he retorted with
sarcasm, "all educated men could write verse at least with elegance."
I took the paper and looked at the Chinese characters. They made an
agreeable pattern upon it.
"Won't you also give me a translation?"
"_Traduttore--traditore_," he answered. "You cannot expect me to betray
myself. Ask one of your English friends. Those who know most about
China know nothing, but you will at least find one who is competent to
give you a rendering of a few rough and simple lines."
I bade him farewell, and with great politeness he showed me to my
chair. When I had the opportunity I gave the poems to a sinologue of
my acquaintance, and here is the version he made.[1] I confess that,
doubtless unreasonably, I was somewhat taken aback when I read it.
_You loved me not: your voice was sweet;
Your eyes were full of laughter; your hands were tender.
And then you loved me: your voice was bitter;
Your eyes were full of tears; your hands were cruel.
Sad, sad that love should make you
Unlovable._
* * * * *
_I craved the years would quickly pass
That you might lose
The brightness of your eyes, the peach-bloom of your skin,
And all the cruel splendour of your youth.
Then I alone would love you
And you at last would care._
_The envious years have passed full soon
And you have lost
The brightness of your eyes, the peach-bloom of your skin,
And all the charming splendour of your youth.
Alas, I do not love you
And I care not if you care._
[1] I owe it to the kindness of my friend Mr. P.W. Davidson.
XXXIX
THE MISSIONARY LADY
She was certainly fifty, but a life of convictions harassed by never
a doubt had left her face unwrinkled. The hesitations of thought had
never lined the smoothness of her brow. Her features were bold and
regular, somewhat masculine, and her determined chin bore out the
impression given you by her eyes. They were blue, confident, and
unperturbed. They summed you up through large round spectacles. You
felt that here was a woman to whom command came easily. Her charity
was above all things competent and you were certain that she ran the
obvious goodness of her heart on thoroughly business lines. It was
possible to suppose that she was not devoid of human vanity (and this
is to be counted to her for grace) since she wore a dress of violet
silk, heavily embroidered, and a toque of immense pansies which on a
less respectable head would have been almost saucy. But my Uncle Henry,
for twenty-seven years Vicar of Whitstable, who had decided views on
the proper manner of dress for a clergyman's wife, never objected
to my Aunt Sophie wearing violet, and he would have found nothing
to criticise in the missionary lady's gown. She spoke fluently with
the even flow of water turned on at a tap. Her conversation had the
admirable volubility of a politician at the end of an electioneering
campaign. You felt that she knew what she meant (with most of us so
rare an accomplishment) and meant what she said.
"I always think," she remarked pleasantly, "that if you know both sides
of a question you'll judge differently from what you will if you only
know one side. But the fact remains that two and two make four and you
can argue all night and you won't make them five. Am I right or am I
wrong?"
I hastened to assure her that she was right, though with these new
theories of relativity and parallel lines behaving at infinity in such
a surprising manner I was in my heart of hearts none too sure.
"No one can eat their cake and have it," she continued, exemplifying
Benedetto Croce's theory that grammar has little to do with expression,
"and one has to take the rough with the smooth, but as I always say to
the children you can't expect to have everything your own way. No one
is perfect in this world and I always think that if you expect the best
from people you'll get the best."
I confess that I was staggered, but I determined to do my part. It was
only civil.
"Most men live long enough to discover that every cloud has a silver
lining," I began earnestly. "With perseverance you can do most things
that are not beyond your powers, and after all, it's better to want
what you have than to have what you want."
I thought her eyes were glazed with a sudden perplexity when I made
this confident statement, but I daresay it was only my fancy, for she
nodded vigorously.
"Of course, I see your point," she said. "We can't do more than we can."
But my blood was up now and I waved aside the interruption. I went on.
"Few people realise the profound truth that there are twenty shillings
in every pound and twelve pence in every shilling. I'm sure it's better
to see clearly to the end of your nose than indistinctly through a
brick wall. If there's one thing we can be certain about it is that the
whole is greater than the part."
When, with a hearty shake of the hand, firm and characteristic, she
bade me farewell, she said:
"Well, we've had a most interesting chat. It does one good in a place
like this, so far away from civilisation, to exchange ideas with one's
intellectual equals."
"Especially other people's," I murmured.
"I always think that one should profit by the great thoughts of the
past," she retorted. "It shows that the mighty dead have not lived in
vain."
Her conversation was devastating.
XL
A GAME OF BILLIARDS
I was sitting in the lobby of the hotel, reading a number, several days
old, of the _South China Times_, when the door of the bar was somewhat
brusquely thrown open and a very long, thin man appeared.
"Do you care for a game of billiards?" he said.
"By all means."
I got up and went with him into the bar. It was a small hotel, of
stone, somewhat pretentious in appearance, and it was kept by a
half-caste Portuguese who smoked opium. There were not half a dozen
people staying there, a Portuguese official and his wife waiting for a
ship to take them to a distant colony, a Lancashire engineer who was
sullenly drunk all day long, a mysterious lady, no longer young but
of voluptuous appearance, who came to the dining room for meals and
went back to her room immediately afterwards, and I had not seen the
stranger before. I supposed he had come in that evening on a Chinese
boat. He was a man of over fifty, I should think, shrivelled as though
the sap had been dried out of him by tropical suns, with a face that
was almost brick red. I could not place him. He might have been a
skipper out of a job or the agent of some foreign firm in Hong Kong. He
was very silent and he made no answer to the casual remarks that I made
in the course of the game. He played billiards well enough, though not
excellently, but he was a very pleasant fellow to play with; and when
he pocketed my ball, instead of leaving me a double balk, gave me a
reasonable shot. But when the game was over I should never have thought
of him again, if suddenly, breaking his silence for the first time, he
had not put me a very odd question.
"Do you believe in fate?" he asked.
"At billiards?" I retorted not a little astonished at his remark.
"No, in life."
I did not want to answer him seriously.
"I hardly know," I said.
He took his shot. He made a little break. At the end of it, chalking
his cue, he said:
"I do. I believe if things are coming to you, you can't escape them."
That was all. He said nothing more. When we had finished the game he
went up to bed, and I never saw him again. I shall never know what
strange emotion impelled him to put that sudden question to a stranger.
XLI
THE SKIPPER
I knew he was drunk.
He was a skipper of the new school, a neat little man, clean-shaven,
who might easily have passed for the commander of a submarine. In
his cabin there hung a beautiful new coat with gold braid on it, the
uniform which for its good service in the war has been granted to the
mercantile marine, but he was shy of using it; it seemed absurd when he
was no more than captain of a small boat on the Yangtze; and he stood
on his bridge in a neat brown suit and a homburg hat; you could almost
see yourself in his admirably polished shoes. His eyes were clear and
bright and his skin was fresh. Though he had been at sea for twenty
years and could not have been much less than forty he did not look more
than twenty-eight. You might be sure that he was a clean-living fellow,
as healthy in mind as he was in body, and the depravity of the East
of which they talk had left him untouched. He had a pleasant taste in
light literature and the works of E.V. Lucas adorned his book-case. In
his cabin you saw a photograph of a football team in which he figured
and two of a young woman with neatly waved hair whom it was possible
enough he was engaged to.
I knew he was drunk, but I did not think he was very drunk, till he
asked me suddenly:
"What is democracy?"
I returned an evasive, perhaps a flippant answer, and for some minutes
the conversation turned on less unseasonable topics to the occasion.
Then breaking his silence, he said:
"I hope you don't think I'm a socialist because I said, what is
democracy."
"Not at all," I answered, "but I don't see why you shouldn't be a
socialist."
"I give you my word of honour I'm not," he protested. "If I had my way
I'd stand them up against a wall and shoot them."
"What is socialism?" I asked.
"Oh, you know what I mean, Henderson and Ramsay Macdonald and all that
sort of thing," he answered. "I'm about fed up with the working man."
"But you're a working man yourself, I should have thought."
He was silent for quite a long time and I thought his mind had wandered
to other things. But I was wrong; he was thinking my statement over in
all its bearings, for at last he said:
"Look here, I'm not a working man. Hang it all, I was at Harrow."
XLII
THE SIGHTS OF THE TOWN
I am not an industrious sight-seer, and when guides, professional
or friendly, urge me to visit a famous monument I have a stubborn
inclination to send them about their business. Too many eyes before
mine have looked with awe upon Mont Blanc; too many hearts before mine
have throbbed with deep emotion in the presence of the Sistine Madonna.
Sights like these are like women of too generous sympathies: you feel
that so many persons have found solace in their commiseration that you
are embarrassed when they bid you, with what practised tact, to whisper
in their discreet ears the whole tale of your distress. Supposing you
were the last straw that broke the camel's back! No, Madam, I will take
my sorrows (if I cannot bear them alone, which is better) to someone
who is not quite so certain of saying so exactly the right thing to
comfort me. When I am in a foreign town I prefer to wander at random
and if maybe I lose the rapture of a Gothic cathedral I may happen upon
a little Romanesque chapel or a Renaissance doorway which I shall be
able to flatter myself no one else has troubled about.
But of course this was a very extraordinary sight indeed and it would
have been absurd to miss it. I came across it by pure chance. I was
sauntering along a dusty road outside the city wall and by the side of
it I saw a number of memorial arches. They were small and undecorated,
standing not across the way but along it, close to one another, and
sometimes one in front of the other, as though they had been erected
by no impulse of gratitude to the departed or of admiration for the
virtuous but in formal compliment, as knighthoods on the King's
birthday are conferred on prominent citizens of provincial towns.
Behind this row of arches the land rose sharply and since in this part
of the country the Chinese bury their dead by preference on the side
of a hill it was thickly covered with graves. A trodden path led to a
little tower and I followed it. It was a stumpy little tower, ten feet
high perhaps, made of rough-hewn blocks of stone; it was cone shaped
and the roof was like a Pierrot's hat. It stood on a hillock, quaint
and rather picturesque against the blue sky, amid the graves. At its
foot were a number of rough baskets thrown about in disorder. I walked
round and on one side saw an oblong hole, eighteen inches by eight,
perhaps, from which hung a stout string. From the hole there came a
very strange, a nauseating odour. Suddenly I understood what the queer
little building was. It was a baby tower. The baskets were the baskets
in which the babies had been brought, two or three of them were quite
new, they could not have been there more than a few hours. And the
string? Why, if the person who brought the baby, parent or grandmother,
midwife or obliging friend, were of a humane disposition and did not
care to let the new-born child drop to the bottom (for underneath the
tower was a deep pit), it could be let down gently by means of the
string. The odour was the odour of putrefaction. A lively little boy
came up to me while I stood there and made me understand that four
babes had been brought to the tower that morning.
There are philosophers who look upon evil with a certain complacency,
since without it, they opine, there would be no possibility of good.
Without want there would be no occasion for charity, without distress
of sympathy, without danger of courage, and without unhappiness of
resignation. They would find in the Chinese practice of infanticide
an apt illustration of their views. Except for the baby tower there
would not be in this city an orphanage: the traveller would miss an
interesting and curious sight, and a few poor women would have no
opportunity to exercise a beautiful and touching virtue. The orphanage
is shabby and bedraggled; it is situated in a poor and crowded part of
the city; for the Spanish nuns who conduct it--there are but five of
them--think it more convenient to live where they may be most useful;
and besides, they have not the money to build commodious premises in a
salubrious quarter. The institution is supported by the work, lace and
fine embroidery, which they teach the girls to do, and by the alms of
the faithful.
Two nuns, the Mother Superior and another, showed me what there was
to see. It was very strange to go through the whitewashed rooms,
work-rooms, playrooms, dormitories, and refectory, low, cool, and bare;
for you might have been in Spain, and when you passed a window you half
expected to catch a glimpse of the Giralda. And it was charming to see
the tenderness with which the nuns used the children. There were two
hundred of them and they were, of course, orphans only in the sense
that their parents had abandoned them. There was one room in which a
number were playing, all of the same age, perhaps four, and all of the
same size; with their black eyes and black hair, their yellow skins,
they all looked so much alike that they might have been the children of
a Chinese Old Woman who lived in a Shoe. They crowded round the nuns
and began to romp with them. The Mother Superior had the gentlest voice
I ever heard, but it became gentler still when she joked with the tiny
mites. They nestled about her. She looked a very picture of charity.
Some were deformed and some were diseased, some were puny and hideous,
some were blind; it gave me a little shudder: I marvelled when I saw
the love that filled her kind eyes and the affectionate sweetness of
her smile.
Then I was taken into a parlour where I was made to eat little sweet
Spanish cakes and given a glass of Manzanilla to drink, and when I told
them that I had lived in Seville a third nun was sent for, so that she
might talk for a few minutes with someone who had seen the city she was
born in. With pride they showed me their poor little chapel with its
tawdry statue of the Blessed Virgin, its paper flowers, and its gaudy,
shoddy decoration; for those dear faithful hearts, alas! were possessed
of singularly bad taste. I did not care: to me there was something
positively touching in that dreadful vulgarity. And when I was on the
point of leaving the Mother Superior asked me whether I would care to
see the babies who had come in that day. In order to persuade people to
bring them they gave twenty cents for every one. Twenty cents!
"You see," she explained, "they have often a long walk to come here and
unless we give them something they won't take the trouble."
She took me into a little anteroom, near the entrance, and there lying
on a table under a counterpane were four new-born babes. They had just
been washed and put into long clothes. The counterpane was lifted off.
They lay side by side, on their backs, four tiny wriggling mites, very
red in the face, rather cross perhaps because they had been bathed,
and very hungry. Their eyes seemed preternaturally large. They were so
small, so helpless: you were forced to smile when you looked at them
and at the same time you felt a lump in your throat.
XLIII
NIGHTFALL