The expression of the Chinese face in the aggregate is neither
cheerful nor happy. In an acquaintance of half a dozen years, I can
only recall one or two exceptions to this rule. There is an abiding
consciousness of degradation--a secret pain or self-humiliation
visible in the lines of the mouth and eye. Whether it is only a
modification of Turkish gravity, or whether it is the dread Valley of
the Shadow of the Drug through which they are continually straying, I
can not say. They seldom smile, and their laughter is of such an
extraordinary and sardonic nature--so purely a mechanical spasm, quite
independent of any mirthful attribute--that to this day I am doubtful
whether I ever saw a Chinaman laugh. A theatrical representation by
natives, one might think, would have set my mind at ease on this
point; but it did not. Indeed, a new difficulty presented itself--the
impossibility of determining whether the performance was a tragedy or
farce. I thought I detected the low comedian in an active youth who
turned two somersaults, and knocked everybody down on entering the
stage. But, unfortunately, even this classic resemblance to the
legitimate farce of our civilization was deceptive. Another brocaded
actor, who represented the hero of the play, turned three
somersaults, and not only upset my theory and his fellow actors at the
same time, but apparently ran amuck behind the scenes for some time
afterward. I looked around at the glinting white teeth to observe the
effect of these two palpable hits. They were received with equal
acclamation, and apparently equal facial spasms. One or two beheadings
which enlivened the play produced the same sardonic effect, and left
upon my mind a painful anxiety to know what was the serious business
of life in China. It was noticeable, however, that my unrestrained
laughter had a discordant effect, and that triangular eyes sometimes
turned ominously toward the "Fanqui devil"; but as I retired
discreetly before the play was finished, there were no serious
results. I have only given the above as an instance of the
impossibility of deciding upon the outward and superficial expression
of Chinese mirth. Of its inner and deeper existence I have some
private doubts. An audience that will view with a serious aspect the
hero, after a frightful and agonizing death, get up and quietly walk
off the stage, can not be said to have remarkable perceptions of the
ludicrous.
[Footnote 64: From "The Luck of Roaring Camp." Copyright, 1871, 1899,
Houghton, Mifflin Company.]
I have often been struck with the delicate pliability of the Chinese
expression and taste that might suggest a broader and deeper criticism
than is becoming these pages. A Chinaman will adopt the American
costume, and wear it with a taste of color and detail that will
surpass those "native, and to the manner born." To look at a Chinese
slipper, one might imagine it impossible to shape the original foot to
anything less cumbrous and roomy, yet a neater-fitting boot than that
belonging to the Americanized Chinaman is rarely seen on this side of
the continent. When the loose sack or paletot takes the place of his
brocade blouse, it is worn with a refinement and grace that might
bring a jealous pang to the exquisite of our more refined
civilization. Pantaloons fall easily and naturally over legs that have
known unlimited freedom and bagginess, and even garrote collars meet
correctly around sun-tanned throats. The new expression seldom
overflows in gaudy cravats. I will back my Americanized Chinaman
against any neophyte of European birth in the choice of that article.
While in our own State, the greaser resists one by one the garments of
the Northern invader, and even wears the livery of his conqueror with
a wild and buttonless freedom, the Chinaman, abused and degraded as he
is, changes by correctly graded transition to the garments of
Christian civilization. There is but one article of European wear that
he avoids. These Bohemian eyes have never yet been pained by the
spectacle of a tall hat on the head of an intelligent Chinaman.
My acquaintance with John has been made up of weekly interviews,
involving the adjustment of the washing accounts, so that I have not
been able to study his character from a social viewpoint or observe
him in the privacy of the domestic circle. I have gathered enough to
justify me in believing him to be generally honest, faithful, simple,
and painstaking. Of his simplicity let me record an instance where a
sad and civil young Chinaman brought me certain shirts with most of
the buttons missing and others hanging on delusively by a single
thread. In a moment of unguarded irony I informed him that unity would
at least have been preserved if the buttons were removed altogether.
He smiled sadly and went away. I thought I had hurt his feelings,
until the next week, when he brought me my shirts with a look of
intelligence, and the buttons carefully and totally erased. At another
time, to guard against his general disposition to carry off anything
as soiled clothes that he thought could hold water, I requested him to
always wait until he saw me. Coming home late one evening, I found the
household in great consternation over an immovable Celestial who had
remained seated on the front door-step during the day, sad and
submissive, firm but also patient, and only betraying any animation or
token of his mission when he saw me coming. This same Chinaman evinced
some evidences of regard for a little girl in the family, who in her
turn reposed such faith in his intellectual qualities as to present
him with a preternaturally uninteresting Sunday-school book, her own
property. This book John made a point of carrying ostentatiously with
him in his weekly visits. It appeared usually on the top of the clean
clothes, and was sometimes painfully clasped outside of the big bundle
of soiled linen. Whether John believed he unconsciously imbibed some
spiritual life through its pasteboard cover, as the Prince in the
"Arabian Nights" imbibed the medicine through the handle of the
mallet, or whether he wished to exhibit a due sense of gratitude, or
whether he hadn't any pockets, I have never been able to ascertain. In
his turn he would sometimes cut marvelous imitation roses from
carrots for his little friend. I am inclined to think that the few
roses strewn in John's path were such scentless imitations. The thorns
only were real. From the persecutions of the young and old of a
certain class his life was a torment. I don't know what was the exact
philosophy that Confucius taught, but it is to be hoped that poor John
in his persecution is still able to detect the conscious hate and fear
with which inferiority always regards the possibility of even-handed
justice, and which is the keynote to the vulgar clamor about servile
and degraded races.