€'.
The
original of thisbook
is inthe
Cornell University
Library.There
are
no
known
copyright
restrictions inthe
United States
on
the
use
ofthe
text.ON
A
CHINESE
SCREEN
W.
SOMERSET
MAUGHAM
By W.
SOMERSET
MAUGHAM
ON
A CHINESE SCREENOF
HUMAN
BONDAGETHE MOON
AND SIXPENCETHE TREMBLING OF A LEAF
LIZAOF
LAMBETH
MRS. CRADDOCK THE EXPLORER THE MAGICIAN
ON A
CHINESE
SCREEN
BY
W.
SOMERSET
MAUGHAM
URIS
LIBRARY
MAY 1
9
1993NEW
^Sr
YORK
GEORGE
H.
DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BYGEORGE H. DORAN
COMPANY
ON
A CHINESE SCREEN. IFOE
CONTENTS
ON
A
CHINESE
SCREEN
THE
RISING
OF
THE
CURTAIN
YOU
come
to therow
of hovels that leads to the gate of the city.They
are builtof dried
mud
and
so dilapidated thatyou
feel a breath of wind will laythem
flat
upon
the dusty earthfrom
which they have been made.A
string of camels, heavily laden,steps warily pastyou.
They
wear
the disdainful air of profiteers forced to traversea
world in whichmany
people are not so rich as they.A
little crowd, tattered in their blue clothes, is
gathered about the gate
and
it scatters asa
youth
inapointedcapgallopsup
on
aMongolian
pony.
A
band
of children are chasing alamedog
and
they throw clods ofmud
at it.Two
stoutgentlemen in longblack
gowns
of figured silkand
silk jackets stand talking to one another.Each
holds alittle stick,perchedon
which,with a stringattached to its leg, is a little bird.
They
have brought out their pets foran
airingand
in.friendly fashion
compare
their merits.Now
and
then the birds give
a
flutter into the air, theON
A
CHINESE
SCR
E
EN
length of the string,
and
return quickly to theirperch.
The
two Chinese gentlemen, smiling, look atthem
withsoft eyes.Rude
boys cry out at the foreigner inashrilland
scornful voice.The
city wall,crumbling, oldand
crenellated,lookslike thecity wall in
an
old picture ofsome
Palestinishtown
of the Crusaders.You
pass through thegateway
into anarrow
street lined with shops:
many
ofthem
with theirelegantlatticework,red
and
gold,and
theirelabo-rate carving, have a peculiar ruined magnificence,
and you
imagine that in their dark recesses aresold all
manner
of strange wares of the fabulous East.A
great multitude surges alongtheuneven narrow footwalk or in the deepset street;and
coolies, bearing heavy loads, shout for
way
inshort sharp cries.
Hawkers
with guttural soundcall their wares.
And
now
at a sedate pace,drawn
by
a sleekmule,comes aPekingcart. Its
hood
isbright blueand
its great wheels are studded with nails.The
driver sits with dangling legs on a shaft. It isevening
and
the sun sets red behind the yellow, steep,and
fantasticroof ofatemple.The
Peking cart,theblind infrontdrawn
down,passes silentlyand
you wonder
who
it is that sits cross-leggedwithin. Perhaps it is a scholar, all the learning
of the classics at his finger ends,
bound on
avisit to
a
friend withwhom
he will exchangeelaborate compliments
and
discuss thegolden ageof
Tang
and Sung
whichcanreturnnomore
;per-hapsit is a singinggirlinsplendidsilks
and
richly 12THE
RISING
OP
THE
CU8T4IN
embroidered coat, with jade in her black hair,
summoned
to aparty
so that shemay
singalittlesong
and
exchange elegant repartee withyoung
blades cultured
enough
to appreciate wit.The
Peking cart disappears into the gatheringdark-ness:itseems tocarryallthemystery of theEast.
II
MY
LADY'S
PARLOUR
1
REALLY
it," she said.think I canmake
something ofShe looked about her briskly,
and
thelight of the creative imagination filled her eyes withbrightness.
It
was an
old temple, a small one, in the city,which she
had
takenand was
turninginto adwell-ing house. It
had
beenbuiltfora very holymonk
by
his admirers three hundred years before,and
hereingreatpiety,practisinginnumerable
austeri-ties,he
had
passed his declining days.For
long after inmemory
of his virtue the faithfulhad
come
to worship, butin course of time fundshad
fallenverylow
and
atlast the two or threemonks
that remained were forced to leave. It
was
weather-beaten
and
thegreentilesoftheroofwere overgrown with weeds.The
raftered ceilingwas
still beautiful with its faded gold dragons
on
afaded red; but she did notlike a dark ceiling, so
she stretched a canvas across
and
papered it.Needing air
and
sunlight, she cut two largewin-dows
on oneside. Shevery luckilyhad
some blue curtainswhich werejust the right size. Bluewas
herfavourite colour: itbrought out the colour of
MY
LADY'S
FABLOUB
her eyes. Since the columns, great red sturdy
columns, oppressed her a little she papered
them
with
a
verynicepaper
whichdid notlook Chinese at all. Shewas
lucky also with thepaper
with which she covered the walls. Itwas
bought in a native shop, but really it might havecome
from
Sandersons'; it
was
a very nice pink stripeand
it
made
the place look cheerful at once.At
theback was
a recess in whichhad
stood a great lacquer tableand
behind itan image
of theBuddha
in his eternal meditation.Here
genera-tions of believers
had
burned their tapersand
prayed,
some
for this temporal benefit or that,some
for releasefrom
the returning burden of earthly existence;and
this seemedto her the veryplace for
an American
stove. Shewas
obliged tobuy
her carpet in China, but shemanaged
to getone that looked so like
an
Axminster thatyou
would
hardlyknow
the difference.Of
course,beinghand-made, it
had
not quite the smoothnessof the English article, but it
was a
very decentsubstitute. She
was
abletobuy
a verynice lotof furniturefrom
amember
of theLegationwho
was
leaving the country for a post in
Rome, and
shegot a nice bright chintz
from
Shanghai tomake
loose covers with. Fortunately shehad
quitea
number
of pictures, wedding presentsand some
even that she
had
bought herself,for shewas
veryartistic,
and
thesegavetheroom
a cosy look. She needed a screenand
here therewas
no help forit,she
had
tobuy
a
Chinese one, but as she very cleverly said,you
mightperfectlywellhavea
ON
A
CHINESE
SCEEEN
nese screen in England. She
had
a greatmany
photographs, in silver frames, one of
them
of aPrincess•of Schleswig-Holstein,
and
one of theQueen
of Sweden, both signed,and
these she put on thegrand
piano, for they give aroom an
airof being lived in. Then, having finished, she sur-veyed her
work
with satisfaction."Of
course it doesn't look like aroom
inLon-don," she said,"but it mightquite well be a
room
in some nice place in England, Cheltenham, say,
orTunbridgeWells."
Ill
THE
MONGOL
CHIEF
HEAVEN
knows from what
mysterious distance hehad
come.He
rodedown
the winding
pathway from
the highMongolian
plateau with themoun-tains, barren, stony,
and
inaccessible, stretchingon
all sides,an
impenetrable barrier; he rodedown
past the temple thatguarded
the head ofthe pass till he
came
to the old river bed whichwas
thegateway
into China. Itwas
hedged inby
thefoothills brilliantunderthemorning
sun,withsharp shadows;
and
the innumerabletraffic of thecenturies
had
formed on that stony floor a roughroad.
The
airwas
keenand
clear, the skywas
blue.
Here
all theyearround from
daybreaktillsundown, passed an unending stream, camels in caravan bearingthe brick tea to
Urga
seven hun-dred milesaway
and
so to Siberia, long lines ofwagons
drawn by
placid bullocks,and
little cartsintwos
and
threesbehind stout ponies;and
inthecontrary direction, into China, again camels in caravan bringinghides to the markets of Peking,
and wagons
in long procession.Now
amob
of horseswentby
and
then aflock ofgoats.But
hiseyesdid notrest
on
the various scene.He
seemedON
A
CHINESE
SCREEN
notto noticethat otherswere travelling the pass.
He
was accompaniedby
his henchmen, sixor seven of them,somewhat
bedraggled it is true,on
sorrynags, but they
had
a truculent air.They
ambledalong in a slovenly bunch.
He
was dressed in ablack silk coat
and
black silktrousers thrust intohis,long riding boots with their turned-up toes,
and
on his head hewore
thehigh sable cap of hiscountry.
He
held himself erect, riding a littleahead of his followers, proudly,
and
as he rode,his head high
and
his eyes steady,you wondered
ifhe thoughtthat
down
this pass indays goneby
his ancestors
had
ridden, riddendown
upon
the fertile plain of China where rich cities lay ready to their looting.IV
THE
ROLLING
STONE
I
HEARD
his extraordinary story before II
saw him and
I expectedsomeone of strik-ingappearance. Itseemedtome
that any-onewho
had
gone through such singular experiencesmust
havein his outerman
somethingsingular too.
But
I found a person in whoseaspect there
was
nothing remarkable.He
was
smaller than the average,
somewhat
frail, sun-burned, with hair beginning to turn greythough
he
was
still under thirty,and
brown
eyes.He
looked like
anybody
else,and
you
might seehim
half a dozen times before rememberingwho
he was. Ifyou
had happened
upon him
behindthe counter ofa department store or on a stool in
a
broker's officeyou
would have thoughthim
per-fectly in place.
But
you would
have noticedhim
as little as
you
noticed the counter or the stool.There
was
so little inhim
to attract attention that in the end itbecame
intriguing: his face,empty
of significance, remindedyou
of the blankwall of a
Manchu
palace, in a sordid street,be-hind which
you knew
were painted courtyards,carved dragons,
and
heavenknows what
subtleintricacy of life.
ON
A
CHINESE SCREEN
For
his whole careerwas
remarkable.The
son of a veterinary surgeon, hehad
been a reporterin the
London
policecourtsand
thenhad
goneas steward on board a merchant ship toBuenos
Ayres. There he
had
desertedand somehow
or otherhad
worked hisway
acrossSouth
America.From
a port in Chili hemanaged
to get to theMarquesas
where for sixmonths
hehad
lived onthe natives always ready to offer hospitality to a white
man,
and then, begging a passage on aschooner to Tahiti,
had
shipped toAmoy
assecond
mate
ofan
old tub which carried Chinese labour to the Society Islands.That
was nine years before Imet him and
sincethen he
had
lived in China. First he gotwork
with the B. A. T.
Company,
but after a couple of years he found it monotonous;and
havingacquired
a
certain knowledge of the languagehe entered the
employment
of a firm which dis-tributed patent medicines through the lengthand
breadth of the land.
For
three years hewan-deredinprovinceafterprovince, selling pills,
and
at the end of it
had
saved eight hundred dollars.He
cut himself adrift once more.He
began
then themost
remarkable of hisad-ventures.
He
set outfrom
Peking on a journeyright across the country, travelling in the guise of a poor Chinaman, withhis roll of bedding, his
Chinese pipe,
and
his tooth-brush.He
stayed in the Chinese inns, sleeping on the kangs huddledup
with fellow wayfarers,and
ate the Chinese food. This alone is nomean
feat.He
used theTHE
ROLLING
STOKE
train but little, going for the most part on foot,
by
cart, orby
river.He
went through Shensiand
Shansi; he walked on thewindy
plateaus ofMongolia
and
risked his life in barbaric Turkes-tan; he spentlong weeks with thenomads
of thedesert
and
travelled with the caravans thatcar-ried the brick tea across the arid wilderness of
Gobi.
At
last, fouryears later, having spent his last dollar he reached Peking once more.He
set about looking for a job.The
easiestway
toearnmoney
seemedto write,and
the editor of one of the English papers in China offered totake a series of articles
on
his journey. Isup-pose his only difficulty
was
to choosefrom
thefulness of his experience.
He
knew
much
whichhe
was
perhaps the onlyEnglishman
to know.He
had
seen allmanner
ofthings, quaint, impres-sive,terrible, amusing,and
unexpected.He
wrote twenty-four articles. I will not say that they were unreadable, for they showed a carefuland
a sympathetic observation; but he
had
seenevery-thing at haphazard, as it were,
and
they were but the material ofart.They
were likethe cata-logue of theArmy
and
Navy
Stores, a mine to theimaginativeman,
butthe foundationof litera-tureratherthanliteratureitself.He
was
thefieldnaturalist
who
patiently collectsan
infinity offacts, but has no gift forgeneralisation:they
re-main
facts that await the synthesis ofmindsmore
complicatedthanhis.
He
collectedneitherplantsnor beasts, but men. His collection
was
un-rivalled,buthisknowledgeofitslender. 21
ON
A
CHINESE SCREEN
When
I methim
I sought to discernhow
the variety of his experiencehad
affected him; but though he was full of anecdote, ajovial, friendlycreature, willing to talk at length of all he
had
seen, I could not discover that
any
of his adven-tureshad
intimatelytouchedhim.The
instinct todo all the queer things he
had
done showed that therewas
inhim
a streak of queerness.The
civilised world irked
him and
hehad
a passionto get
away
from the beaten trail.The
odditiesof life
amused
him.He
had an
insatiable curi-osity.But
Ithinkhis experiences weremerely of thebody
and
were never translated intoexperi-ences of thesoul. Perhaps that is
why
atbottom
you
felt hewas
commonplace.The
insignificanceof his mienwas a true index to theinsignificance
ofhis soul. Behind the blank wall
was
blankness.That was
certainlywhy
with somuch
to writeabout he wrote tediously, for in writing the
im-portantthingislessrichnessofmaterialthan
rich-nessofpersonality.
THE
CABINET MINISTER
HE
receivedme
in a longroom
looking1on
to a sandy garden.The
roseswitheredonthestunted bushes
and
the great old trees flagged forlorn.He
sat
me
down
on
a square stool at a square tableand
took his seat in front of me.A
servantbrought cups of flowered tea
and
American
cigarettes.
He
was
a thinman,
of the middleheight, with thin, elegant hands;
and
through hisgold-rimmed spectacleshelooked at
me
withlarge,dark,
and
melancholyeyes.He
had
thelook of astudent or of a dreamer. His smile
was
very sweet.He
wore
abrown
silkgown
and
over it a short black silk jacket,and on
his head abilly-cock hat.
"Is it not strange,"he said, with his charming smile, "that
we
Chinesewear
thisgown
becausethree
hundred
years ago theManchus
werehorse-men?"
"Not
so strange," I retorted, "as that becausetheEnglish
won
the battleofWaterloo
Your
Ex-cellency should
wear
a bowler.""Do
you
think thatiswhy
Iwear
it?" "Icouldeasilyproveit."ON
A
CHINESE SCEEEN
Since I
was
afraid that his exquisite courtesywouldprevent
him
fromaskingme
how,I hastenedin a few well-chosen wordsto do so.
He
took off his hatand
looked at it with theshadow
of a sigh. I glanced round the room. Ithad
a green Brusselscarpet, with great flowers onit, and round thewalls were highly carved
black-wood
chairs.From
a picture railhung
scrolls on which were writingsby
the great masters ofthepast,and tovarythese, inbright gold frames,
wereoilpaintingswhichintheninetiesmight very well have been exhibited in the
Royal Academy.
The
ministerdidhiswork
at anAmerican
roll-top desk.He
talked tome
with melancholy of the stateof China.
A
civilisation,theoldesttheworldhad
known, was
now
beingruthlesslyswept away.The
studentswho came
backfrom
Europe and from
America
were tearingdown what
endlessgenera-tions
had
builtup,and
theywere placingnothing in its stead.They
had
no love of their country,no religion, no reverence.
The
temples, desertedby
worshipperand
priest, were falling into decayand
presently their beauty would be nothing buta
memory.
But
then, with a gesture of his thin, aristo-cratic hands, heput the subject aside.He
askedme
whether I would care to see someofhis worksof art.
We
walked roundtheroom and
heshowedme
priceless porcelains, bronzes,and
Tang
figures.
There
was a horsefrom
agrave inHonan
whichhad
the graceand
the exquisite modellingTHE
CABINET MINISTER
of a Greek wort.
On
a large tableby
the sideof his desk
was
anumber
of rolls.He
chose oneand
holdingit at thetop gave it tome
tounroll. Itwas
a picture ofsome
early dynasty ofmoun-tains seen throughfleecy clouds,
and
with smiling eyes he watchedmy
pleasure as I looked.The
picture
was
set asideand
he showedme
anotherand
yet another. Presently I protested that I could not allow abusy
man
to waste his timeon
me, but he would notlet
me
go.He
brought outpicture afterpicture.
He
was
a connoisseur.He
was
pleased to tellme
the schoolsand
periods towhich they belonged
and
neat anecdotes about their painters."I wish I could think it
was
possible foryou
to appreciate
my
greatest treasures," he said,pointing to the scrolls that adorned his walls.
"Here you
have examples of themost
perfectcalligraphies of China."
"Do
you
likethem
better than paintings?" I asked."Infinitely. Their beauty is
more
chaste.There
is nothing meretricious inthem.But
I canquite understand that a
European
would havedifficultyin appreciating so severe
and
so delicatean
art.Your
tasteinChinese things tends alittle to thegrotesque,'I think."He
produced books of paintingsand
I turned their leaves. Beautiful things!With
thedra-matic instinct of the collectorhe kept to the last
the
book
by
which he setmost
store. Itwas
aseries of little pictures of birds
and
flowers,ON
A
CHINESE
SCEEEN
roughly done with a few strokes, but with such a
power
of suggestion, with so great a feeling fornature
and
such a playfultenderness, that ittookyour
breath away.There
were sprigs ofplum-blossom that heldin their dainty freshness all the
magic of the spring;therewere sparrows in
whose
ruffled
plumage
were the beatand
the tremor oflife. It
was
thework
of a great artist."Will these
American
students everproduce
anything like this?" he asked with a rueful smile.
But
tome
themost
charming part ofitwas
thatI
knew
allthetime thathewas a rascal. Corrupt,inefficient,
and
unscrupulous, helet nothing stand in hisway.He
was a master of thesqueeze.He
had
acquired a large fortuneby
themost
abomi-nable methods.
He
was dishonest, cruel,vindic-tive, and venal.
He
had
certainlyhad
a shareinreducing China to the desperate plight which he so sincerely lamented.
But when
he held in hishand
alittlevase of the colour of lapis lazuli his fingers seemed to curl about it with a charming tenderness, hismelancholy eyes caressedit as theylooked,
and
hislipswereslightlyparted asthough
with a sigh of desire.
VI
DINNER
PARTIES
i:
LEGATION
QUARTER
THE
Swiss director of theBanque
Sino-Argentine
was
announced.He
came
with a large,handsome
wife,who
displayedher opulent charms so generously that it
made
you
a little nervous. Itwas
said that shehad
been a cocotte,and an
English maiden lady (in salmon pink satinand
beads)who
had
come
early, greeted her with a thin
and
frigid smile.The
Minister ofGuatemala and
theCharge
d' Af-faires ofMontenegro
entered together.The
Charge
d'Affaireswas
ina state ofextremeagita-tion; he
had
notunderstood that itwas an
officialfunction, he thought he
had
been asked to dine en petit comitS,and
hehad
not puton
his orders.And
therewas
the Minister ofGuatemala
blazingwith stars!
What
in heaven'sname
was
to be done?The
emotion causedby what
for amoment
seemed almost a diplomatic incidentwas
divertedby
the appearance oftwo
Chinese servants in long silk robesand
four-sided hats with cocktailsand
zakouski.Then
a Russian princess sailedin.
She
had
white hairand
a black silk dressup
ON
A
CHINESE
SCREEN
toherneck. Shelookedlikethe heroine of a play
by
VictorienSardou
who
had
outlived themelo-dramatic fury of her youth
and
now
did crochet. Shewas
infinitelyboredwhen you
spoke to her of Tolstoi or Chekov; but grew animatedwhen
she talked ofJack
London. She put a question to themaiden lady which the maiden lady, though no
longer young,
had
no answer for."Why,"
she asked, "doyou
English write such silly books about Russia?"But
then thefirstsecretary of the BritishLega-tion appeared.
He
gave his entrance thesignifi-canceof
an
event.He
was
very tall, baldishbut elegant,and
he wasbeautifully dressed:helookedwith politeastonishment at the dazzling orders of theMinister ofGuatemala.
The
Charged'Affairesof Montenegro,
who
flattered himself that hewas
the best dressed
man
in the diplomatic body, butwas
not quite sure whether the first secretary of the British Legation thoughthim
so, flutteredup
to
him
to ask his candid opinion of the frilledshirt he wore.
The
Englishman
placed agold-rimmed
glass in his eye andlooked at it for amo-ment
gravely;thenhe paidtheother a devastatingcompliment.
Everyone
had come by
now
but the wife of the French Military Attache.They
said shewas alwayslate."Elle est insupportable," said the
handsome
wife of the Swiss banker.
But
atlast,magnificentlyindifferent to thefact that shehad
kept everyone waiting for halfan
DINNEB
PARTIES
her outrageously high heels, extremely thin,
and
she
wore
a dress that gaveyou
the impression that shehad
nothingon
at all.Her
hairwas
bobbed
and
blonde,and
shewas
boldly painted.She looked like a post-impressionist's idea of patient Griselda.
When
shemoved
the airwas
heavy with exotic odours. She gave the Minister
of
Guatemala
a jewelled, emaciatedhand
to kiss; with a few smiling wordsmade
the banker's wifefeel passee, provincial, and portly; flung
an
im-properjest at theEnglish lady whose
embarrass-ment was
mitigatedby
theknowledgethat the wifeofthe
French
MilitaryAttachewas
tres biennee;and drank
threecocktails inrapidsuccession.Dinner was
served.The
conversation variedfrom
a resonant, rollingFrench
toa somewhat
halting English.
They
talked of this Ministerwho
had
just writtenfrom
Bucharest or Lima,and
that Counsellor's wifewho
found it so dull in Christianiaor so expensivein Washington.On
thewholeit
made
little differencetothem
inwhat
capital they found themselves, for they didpre-cisely the
same
things in Constantinople, Berne,Stockholm
and
Peking. Entrenched within theirdiplomatic privileges
and
supportedby
a lively sense of their social consequence, they dwelt in a world in which Copernicushad
never existed, for tothem
sunand
stars circled obsequiouslyround
this earth of ours,
and
they were its centre.No
oneknew
why
the English ladywas
thereand
the wife of the Swiss director said privately that she
was
without doubt aGerman
spy.But
sheON
A
CHINESE SCEEEN
was an
authorityon
the country. She toldyou
that the Chinese
had
such perfect mannersand
you
really should haveknown
theEmpress
Dowager;
she was a perfect darling.You
knew
very well that in Constantinople she would have
assured
you
that theTurks
were such perfectgentlemen
and
the SultanaFatima
was a perfectdear
and
spoke such wonderful French.Home-less, shewas at
home
whereverhercountryhad
a diplomatic representative.The
first secretary of the British Legation thought the party rather mixed.He
spokeFrench more
like aFrenchman
thanany
French-man
who
everlived.He
was aman
of taste,and
he
had
a natural aptitude for being right.He
only
knew
therightpeopleand onlyread the rightbooks; he admired none but the right music
and
cared for none but the right pictures; he bought
his clothes at the right tailor's
and
hisshirts fromthe only possible haberdasher.
You
listened tohim
with stupefaction. Presentlyyou
wishedwithall
your
heart that he would confess to a likingforsomethingjust alittlevulgar:
you would
havefelt
more
at your ease if only with bold idiosyn-crasy hehad
claimed thatThe
Soul'sAwakening
"was a
work
ofart orThe
Rosary
a masterpiece.But
his tastewas
faultless.He
was perfectand
you
werehalfafraid thatheknew
it,forinrepose his facehad
the look of onewho
bears an intoler-able burden.And
thenyou
discovered that he wrote verslibre.You
breathed again.BIHNEB
PAKTIES
II:
AT
A
TREATY PORT
There was
about the partya
splendour whichhas vanished
from
the dinner tables of England.The mahogany
groaned with silver. In the middle of thesnowy
damask
clothwas
a centrepiece of yellow silk such asyou
were unwillingly con-strained tobuy
inthebazaars ofyour prim
youthand on
thiswas
a massive epergne. Tall silver vases in which were largechrysanthemums
made
it possible to catch only glimpses of the persons opposite you,
and
tall silver candlesticks rearedtheir
proud
heads twoby
twodown
the length of the table.Each
coursewas
served with its ap-propriate wine, sherry with the soupand
hock with the fish;and
there were the two entrees, a white entreeand
abrown
entree,whichthecareful housekeeper of the nineties felt were essential toa
properly arrangeddinner.Perhaps
the conversationwas
less varied thanthe courses, for guests
and
hostshad
seen oneanother nearly every
day
foran
intolerablenum-ber of years
and
eachtopic that arosewas
seizedupon
desperately only to be exhaustedand
fol-lowed
by
a formidable silence.They
talked of racingand
golfand
shooting.They
would have thought itbad form
to touchupon
the abstractand
there were no politics forthem
to discuss. China boredthem
all, they did notwant
to speakof
that; they onlyknew
just somuch
about it aswas necessary to their business,
and
they lookedChi-ON
A
CHINESE SCREEN
nese language.
Why
should he unless he were a missionary or a Chinese Secretary at theLega-tion?
You
could hirean
interpreter for twenty-five dollarsa
month and
itwas
wellknown
that all those fellowswho
went in for Chinesegrew
queer inthe head.
They
were all persons ofcon-sequence.
There
wasnumber
one at Jardine's withhis wife,and
themanager
of theHong-Kong
and
ShanghaiBank
with his wife, the A. P. C.man
and his wife,and
the B. A. T.man
with hiswife,
and
the B.&
S.man
with his wife.They
wore their evening clothes a little uneasily asthough they wore
them from
a sense of duty totheir country rather than as a comfortable
change
from
day
dress.They
had
come
to theparty because they
had
nothing else in theworld to do,butwhen
themoment
came
that they could decently take their leave they would go with asigh ofrelief.
They
werebored to deathwith oneVII
THE
ALTAR
OF
HEAVEN
IT
races ofstands white marble, placedopen to the sky, threeone aboveround ter-theother, which are reached
by
four marble staircases,and
these face thefourpoints ofthecompass.Itrepresents thecelestialsphere with its cardinal points.
A
greatpark
surrounds itand
this againis surroundedby
highwalls.And
hither, year after year,on
thenight of the winter solstice,forthenheavenis reborn,generation after generationcame
theSon
ofHeaven
solemnly toworship the original creator of his house.
Es-corted
by
princesand
the greatmen
ofthe realm, followedby
his troops, theemperor
purifiedby
fastingproceededtothealtar.
And
hereawaitedhim
princesand
ministersand
mandarins, each in his allotted place, musiciansand
the dancersof the sacred dance. In the scanty light of the
great torches the ceremonial robes were darkly splendid.
And
before the tableton
which wereinscribed the words: Imperial
Heaven
—
Supreme
Emperor,
heoffered incense, jade,and
silk,brothand
rice spirit.He
kneltand
knocked his fore-head against the marblepavement
nine times.ON
A
CHINESE SCREEN
ofheaven
and
earthkneltdown, Willard B.Unter-meyer
wrote hisname
in a fineboldhand and
thetown and
statehecame
from, Hastings, Nebraska.So
he sought to attachhis fleeting personality to the recollection of that grandeur of whichsome
dim
rumour had
reached him.He
thought that somen
wouldremember
him
when
hewas
no more.He
aimedin this crudeway
at immortality.But
vain are the hopes ofmen.For
no soonerhad
hesauntered
down
thestepsthana Chinese caretakerwho
had
been leaning against the balustrade, idlylooking at the blue sky,
came
forward,spatneatlyon the spot where Willard B.
Untermeyer had
written,
and
with hisfoot smearedhis spittleover the name. In amoment
no trace remained thatVIII
THE
SERVANTS
OF
GOD
THEY
were sitting sideby
side, twomis-sionaries, talking to one another of
per-fectly trivial things, in the
way
people talkwho
wish toshow
each other civilitybuthave nothingin
common
;and
theywould havebeen surprised to betold that they
had
certainlyone admirablethingin
common,
goodness, forbothhad
this also incommon,
humility; thoughper-haps in the
Englishman
itwas
more
deliberate,and
so, ifmore
conspicuous less natural, than itwas in the
Frenchman.
Otherwise the contrastsbetween
them
were almostludicrous.The
French-man
was hard on
eighty,a
tallman,
still unbent;
and
his large bones suggested that inyouth
hehad
been aman
ofuncommon
strength.Now
hisonly sign of
power
layin his eyes, immenselylarge so thatyou
couldnot help noticing their strange expression,and
flashing.That
isan
epithetoften applied toeyes,but Ido notthinkIhaveeverseenany
to which itmight
be applied so fitly.There
was
reallyaflameinthem and
theyseemedto emit light.They
had
a wildness which hardly sug-gestedsanity.They
werethe eyes of aprophetinON
A
CHINESE
SCEEEN
chin
was
firmand
square.At
no time could he have beenaman
to trifle with, but in hisprime hemust
have been terrific. Perhaps the passion ofhis eyes bespoke battles long fought out in the uttermost depths of his heart,
and
his soul cried out in them, vanquishedand
bleeding, yettri-umphant,
and
he exulted in the unclosedwound
which he offered in willing sacrifice toAlmighty
God.
He
felt the cold in his old bones and he worewrapped
abouthim
like a soldier's cloak agreat fur
and
on his head a cap of Chinese sable.He
was a magnificentfigure.He
had
beeninChinafor half a century
and
thrice hehad
fled for hislife
when
the Chinesehad
attacked his mission."I trust they won't attack it again," he said, smiling, "forI
am
too oldnow
tomake
thesepre-cipitate journeys."
He
shrugged his shoulders:"Je
seraimartyr."He
lit a long black cigarand
puffed it withgreat enjoyment.
The
otherwas
verymuch
younger,he couldnot have beenmore
than fifty,and
hehad
not been in China formore
than twenty years.He
was
amember
of theEnglishChurch
Missionand
hewas
dressedinagrey tweedsuit
and
a spottedtie.He
sought to look as little like a clergyman as
pos-sible.
He
was a littletaller than the average,buthe
was
so fat that he looked stumpy.He
had
a round good-natured face, with red cheeksand
a grey moustache of the varietyknown
as tooth-brush.He
was
very bald, but with a pardonableand
touching vanity hehad grown
his hair longTHE
SERVANTS
OF
GOD.
enough
on
one side to be brought over the scalpand
so give himself at all events the illusion thathis head
was
well-covered.He
was ajovial fellow, withaheartylaugh,and
it rangoutloudly,honestand
true,when
he chaffed his friends orwas
chaffed
by
them.He
had
thehumour
ofaschool-boy and you
could imaginehim
shaking inall his bulkwhen
someone slippedon
a piece of orangepeel.
But
the laughterwould be stopped,and
hewould
redden, as it struckhim
suddenly that theman
who
slipped might have hurt himself,and
thenhewould beallkindness
and
sympathy.For
it
was
impossible to be withhim
for ten minuteswithoutrealisingthe tenderness of his heart.
You
felt that it
would
be impossible to ask him to do anything he would not gladly do, and if perhapsat first his heartiness would
make
it difficult togo
tohim
inyour
spiritual needsyou
could besure inallpractical affairs of his attention,
sym-pathy,
and
good
sense.He
was aman
whose pursewas
always open to the indigentand
whose timewas
always at the serviceof thosewho
wanted it.And
yet perhaps it is unjust to say that in theaffairs of the soul his help would not be very effectual, for though he could not speak to you, like the old
Frenchman,
with the authority ofa
church that has never admitteddoubt or with the compellingfire of theascetic, hewould share
your
distress with such a candid sympathy, consoling
you
with hisown
hesitations, lessa
minister ofGod
thenthan
a halting, tremulousman
of thesame
flesh as yourself,who
sought to share withOK
A
CHINESE
SCEEEN
you
thehope
and
the consolation with which hisown
soulwas
refreshed, that perhaps in hisown
way
hehad
something asgood
to offer as theother.
His story
was
alittleunusual.He
had
been a soldierand
hewas
pleasedto talk of the old dayswhen
hehad
hunted with theQuorn and
danced through theLondon
season.He
had
no un-healthy feelingofpast sin."I was a great dancer in
my
young
days," hesaid, "but I expect I should be quite out of it
now
with all thesenew
dances."It
was
agood
life so long as it lastedand
though he did not for a
moment
regret it, hehad
no feeling ofresentment for it.
The
callhad come
when
hewas
in India.He
did not exactlyknow
how
or why, ithad
just come, a sudden feelingthat he
must
giveup
his life to bringing theheathen to thebelief in Christ, but it
was
a feel-ing that he could not resist; it gavehim
no peace.He
was
ahappy
man
now, enjoying his work."It's a slowbusiness," he said, "but I see signs
of progress and I love the Chinese. I wouldn't
change
my
lifehere forany
intheworld."The
two missionaries said good-bye to onean-other.
"When
areyou
goinghome?"
asked the Eng-lishman."Moi?
Oh, in aday
or two.""I
may
notseeyou
again then. I expect togo
home
inMarch."
THE
SEEVANTS
OP
GOD
streets where he
had
lived for fifty jears, sincewhen
he left France, ayoung man,
he left it for ever; but the othermeant
the Elizabethan house in Cheshire, with itssmooth
lawnsand
itsoak
trees, where his ancestors
had
dwelt for threecenturies.
xs
THE
INN
IT
hour
seemsa longcooliesincehas thewalkednightbeforefell,and
your
forchairan
carrying a lantern. It throws a thin circle oflightinfront of you,and
asyou
passyou
catch a pale glimpse (like a thing of beauty emerging vaguely from the ceaseless flux of
com-mon
life) of abamboo
thicket, aflash of waterina
rice field, or the heavy darkness of a banyan.Now
and
then a belated peasant bearing two heavybaskets on his yoke sidles by.The
bearerswalk
more
slowly, but after the longday
they have lost none of their spirit,and
they chatter gaily; they laugh,and
one ofthem
breaks into a fragment of tuneless song.But
the causewayrises
and
the lantern throws its light suddenly on awhitewashed wall:you
have reached the first miserable houses that straggle along thepath
outside the city wall,
and
two or three minutesmore
bringyou
to a steep flight of steps.The
bearers takethem
at a run.You
pass throughthe city gates.
The
narrow streets are multi-tudinousand
in the shops they are busy still.The
bearers shout raucously.The
crowd
dividesand you
pass through a double hedge of serriedTHE
INN
curious people. Their faces are impassive
and
their dark eyes stare mysteriously.
The
bearers, their day'swork
done,march
with a swingingstride. Suddenly they stop, wheel to the right, into a courtyard,
and you
have reached the inn.Your
chair is set down.The
inn—
it consists of a long yard, partly covered,with rooms openingon
it on each side—
is lit
by
three or four oil lamps.They
throw adim
light immediatelyaround
them, butmake
thesurroundingdarkness
more
impenetrable. All the front of theyard
is crowded with tablesand
at these people are packed, eating rice or drinkingtea.
Some
ofthem
playgames you
do not know.At
the great stove, where water in a cauldron isperpetually heating
and
rice ina huge
pan
being prepared, stand the persons of the inn.They
serve out rapidly great bowls of rice
and
fill theteapots which are incessantly brought them.
Further back a couple of naked coolies, sturdy,
thickset
and
supple, are sluicing themselves with boiling water.You
walk to the end of theyard
where, facing the entrancebut protected
from
thevulgar gaze
by
a screen, is the principal guestchamber.
It is a spacious, windowless room, with a floor
of trodden earth, lofty, for it goes the whole
height of the inn, with
an open
roof.The
wallsare whitewashed, showingthe beams, so that they
remind
you
ofa
farmhouseinSussex.The
furni-ture consists of a square table, with a couple of
straight-backed
wooden
arm-chairs,and
three orON
A
CHINESE
SCEEEN
four
wooden
pallets covered with mattingon
theleast dirty of which
you
will presently layyour
bed. In a cup of oil a taper gives a tiny point of light.
They
bringyou your
lanternand
you
wait while your dinner is cooked.
The
bearers aremerry
now
thattheyhavesetdown
their loads.They
wash
their feetand
puton
clean sandalsand
smoketheirlongpipes.How
precious then is the inordinate length ofyour book
(foryou
are travelling lightand
you
havelimited yourself to three)
and
how
jealouslyyou
read everyword
of everypage
so thatyou
may
delay as long as possible the dreadedmo-ment
when you must
reach the end!You
are mightily thankful then to the authors of long booksand when you
turnovertheirpages, reckon-inghow
longyou
canmake
them
last,you
wish they were half as long again.You
do not askthen for the perfect lucidity which he
who
runsmay
read.A
complicated phraseology whichmakes
it needful to read the sentence a second time to get itsmeaning
is not unwelcome; apro-fusion ofmetaphor,giving
your
fancyampleplay, a richness of allusion affordingyou
the delightof recognition, are then qualities
beyond
price.Then
if the thought is elaborate without beingprofound (for
you
have been on the road sincedawn
and of theforty miles of the day's journeyyou
have footed itmore
thanhalf)you
have the perfectbook
for the occasion.But
the noise in the inn suddenly increases toadin
and
lookingoutyou
seethatmore
travellers,THE
INN
a party of Chinese in sedan chairs,have arrived.
They
take therooms
on each side ofyou and
through
the thinwallsyou
heartheirloud talking farinto thenight.With
alazy, restful eye, your wholebody
conscious of the enjoyment of lyingin bed, taking a sensual pleasure in its fatigue,
you
follow the elaborate pattern of the transom.The
dim lamp
in theyard
shines throughthe tornpaper
with which it is covered,and
its intricatedesign is black against the light.
At
last every-thingis quiet but foraman
in the nextroom
who
iscoughingpainfully. It is thepeculiar,repeated
cough
of phthisis,and
hearing it at intervals through the nightyou wonder
how
longthepoor
devil can live.
You
rejoice inyour
own
rudestrength.
Then
a cock crows loudly, just behindyour
head, it seems;and
not faraway
a bugler blows a long blaston
his bugle, a melancholywail; the inn begins to stir again; lights are lit,
and
the cooliesmake
readytheirloads foranotherX
THE
GLORY
HOLE
IT
is asort oflittle cubicle in a corner of the
chandler's store just under the ceiling
and
you
reach itby
a stairwhich islike a ship's companion. It is partitioned offfrom
theshop
by
matchboarding, about four feet high, so thatwhen you
siton
thewooden
benches that sur-round the tableyou
can see intotheshop with all its stores.Here
are coils of rope, oilskins,heavy
sea-boots, hurricane lamps, hams, tinned goods,
liquor of all sorts, curios to take
home
toyour
wife
and
children, clothes, Iknow
not what.There
is everything that a foreign ship can
want
inan
Easternport.
You
canwatch
the Chinese,sales-men
and
customers,and
they have a pleasantly mysterious air as though they were concerned innefarious business.
You
can seewho
comes into the shop and sinceit is certainly a friend bidhim
join
you
in the Glory Hole.Through
the widedoorway
you
see the sun beatingdown
on the stone pavement of theroadway and
the cooliesscurrying past with theirheavy loads.
At
aboutmidday
thecompany
begins to assemble, two or three pilots, CaptainThompson
and
CaptainBrown,
oldmen who
have sailed the China SeasTHE
GLORY HOLE
for thirty years
and
now
havea
comfortable bil-let ashore, the skipper of atramp from
Shanghai,and
thetaipans of one ortwo tea firms.The
boy
stands silently waiting for orders
and
he brings the drinksand
the dice-box.Talk
flows rather prosily at first.A
boatwas
wrecked the otherday
going in toFoochow,
that fellow Maclean,the engineer of the
An-Chan
hasmade
a pot ofmoney
in rubber lately, the consul's wife iscom-ing out
from
home
in theEmpress;
butby
the time the dice-box has travelled round the tableand
the loser has signed the chit, the glasses areempty and
the dice-box is reached for once more.The
boy
brings thesecondround of drinks.Then
the tongues of these stolid, stubbornmen
are looseneda
littleand
they begin to talk of the past.One
of the pilotsknew
theport firsthard
on
fifty years ago.Ah,
those were the great days."That's
when you
ought tohaveseentheGlory Hole," he says, with a smile.Those
were the days of the tea clippers,when
there
would
be thirty or forty ships in the har-bour, waiting for their cargo.Everyone
had
plenty of
money
to spend then,and
the GloryHole was
the centre of life in the port. Ifyou
wanted
to find aman,
why,you
came
to theGloryHole,
and
ifhe wasn't there he'd be sure tocome
along soon.
The
agents did their business with the skippers there,and
the doctor didn't haveoffice hours; he
went
to the GloryHole
atnoon
and
ifanyone was
sick he attended tohim
thereON
A
CHINESE
SCREEN
and
then.Those
were the dayswhen
men
knew
how
to drink.They
would
come
atmidday and
drink all through the afternoon, a
boy
bringingthem
a bite if they were hungry,and
drink allthrough the night. Fortunes were lost
and
won
in the Glory Hole, for they were gamblers then
and a
man
would risk all theprofits ofhis run ina
game
of cards. Those'werethegood
old days.But
now
the tradewas
gone, the tea clippers nolonger thronged the harbour, the port was dead,
and
theyoung
men,theyoung
men
oftheA. P. C. or of Jardine's, turnedup
their noses at theGlory Hole.
And
as the old pilot talked thatdingy little cubicle with its stained table seemed
to be for a
moment
peopled with those old skip-pers, hardy, reckless,and
adventurous, of aday
that has gone for ever.
XI
FEAR
I
WAS
staying a night withhim on
the road.The
mission stoodon
a little hill justout-sidethe gates of apopulous city.
The
first thing I noticedabouthim
was
thedifferenceof his taste.
The
missionary's house as a rule isfurnished in
a
style which is almostan
outrageto decency.
The
parlour, with its air ofan
un-used room, is papered with a
gaudy
paper,and
on
the wallhang
texts, engravings of sentimental pictures—
The
Soul'sAwakening and Luke
Filde'sThe
Doctor
—
or, if the missionary has been long in the country, congratulatory scrollson
stiffred paper.
There
is a Brussels carpeton
thefloor, rocking chairs ifthehousehold is
American
and
a stiff arm-chairon
eachside of thefireplaceifit isEnglish.
There
isa
sofawhichis soplaced thatnobody
sitson
itand
by
the grim look of it few canwant
to.There
are lace curtains onthewindows.
Here and
thereare occasionaltableson
which arephotographs and
what-nots withmodern
porcelain on them.The
dining-room hasan
appearanceofmore
use, but almost the wholeof it is taken
up
by
a large tableand
when you
sit atit
you
are crowded into thefireplace.But
ON
A
CHINESE
SCBEEN
in
Mr.
Wingrove's study there were books from floor to ceiling, a table littered with papers,cur-tains of a richgreenstuff,
and
over thefireplaceaTibetan bannner. There
was
a row of TibetanBuddhas
on the chimneypiece."I don't
know
how
it is,but you'vegot just thefeelingof collegerooms aboutthe place,"I said.
"Do
you
think so?" he answered. "Iwas
a tutor at Oriel for some time."He
was aman
of nearly fifty, I should think,tall
and
well-covered throughnot stout,with grey hair cut very shortand
a reddish face.One
im-agined that hemust
be a jovialman
fond of laughter,an
easy talkerand
agood
fellow; but his eyes disconcerted you: they were graveand
unsmiling; they
had
a look that I could only de-scribe as harassed. I wondered if Ihad
fallenupon
him
ataninconvenientmoment
when
hismind
was taken
up
with irksome matters, yetsome-how
I felt that thiswas
not a passing expression,but a settled one rather,
and
I could notunder-stand it.
He
had
just that look of anxiety whichyou
see in certain forms of heart disease.He
chattedabout one thing
and
another,then hesaid:
"I hear
my
wifecome
in. Shallwe
go into the drawing-room?"He
ledme
in and introducedme
to alittle thinwoman,
with gold-rimmed spectaclesand
a shy manner. Itwas
plain that she belonged to adif-ferent class
from
her husband.The
missionaries for themost part with allmanner
ofvirtues havenot those which
we
can find no betterway
toTEAK
scribe than under the category of
good
breeding.They
may
be saints but they are not often gen-tlemen.Now
it struckme
thatMr. Wingrove
was
a gentleman, for itwas
evident that his wifewas
not a lady. Shehad
a vulgar intonation.The
drawing-roomwas
furnished in away
Ihad
never before seen in a missionary's house.
There
was
a Chinese carpet on the floor. Chinese pic-tures, old ones,hung
on
the yellow walls.Two
orthreeMing
tilesgave a dashof colour. In the middle of theroom was
a blackwoodtable,elabor-ately carved,
and
onitwas
a figure inwhite porce-lain. Imade
a trivial remark."Idon't
much
care for all these Chinese things meself," answeredmy
hostess briskly, "butMr.
Wingrove's set
on
them. I'd clearthem
all out ifI
had
my
way."
I laughed, not because I
was
amused,and
then I caught inMr.
Wingrove's eyes a flash of icy hatred. Iwas
astonished.But
it passed in amoment.
"We
won't havethem
ifyou
don'tlike them,my
dear," he said gently."They
can be put away.""Oh,I don't
mind them
ifthey pleaseyou."We
began
to talk aboutmy
journeyand
inthe course of conversation I
happened
to askMr.
Wingrove
how
long itwas
since hehad
been in England."Seventeenyears,"hesaid. I
was
surprised."But
I thoughtyou had
one year's furlougheveryseven?"
ON
A
CHINESE SCREEN
"Yes, but I haven't cared to go.""Mr.
Wingrove
thinks it'sbad
for thework
togo
away
for a yearlike that," explained his wife."Of
courseIdon'tcare togo
withouthim." I wonderedhow
it was that hehad
evercome
to China.
The
actualdetails of thecall fascinate me,and
oftenenough
you
find peoplewho
arewilling to talk of it, though
you
have toform
your
own
opinion on the matter lessfrom
thewords they say than from the implications of them; but I did not feel that
Mr.
Wingrove was
a
man
who
would be induced either directly orindirectly to speak of that intimate experience.
He
evidentlytook hiswork
very seriously."Are
there other foreigners here?" I asked."No."
"It
must
be verylonely," I said."I think I prefer it so," he answered, looking at one of the pictures
on
thewall."They'd
only be business people,and you
know"
—
he smiled—
"they haven't
much
use for missionaries.And
they'renot so intellectualthat it is a greathard-ship to be deprived of their
company.
"And
of course we're not really alone,you
know," said Mrs. Wingrove.
"We
have two evangelistsand
then there are twoyoung
ladieswho
teach.And
thereare the schoolchildren."Tea
was
brought inand
we
gossipeddesul-torily.
Mr. Wingrove
seemedto speakwitheffort,and
Ihad
increasingly that feeling inhim
of per-turbed repression.He
had
pleasing mannersand
was
certainly trying to be cordialand
yet Ihad
FEAR
a sense of effort. I led the conversation to
Ox-ford, mentioning various friends
whom
hemight
know,
but
hegaveme
no encouragement."It's so long since I left home," he said,
"and
I haven't kept
up
with anyone. There's a great deal ofwork
in a mission likethisand
it absorbsone entirely."
I thought he
was
exaggerating a little, so Iremarked
:
"Well,
by
thenumber
of booksyou
have I take it thatyou
get a certainamount
of time for reading.""I very seldom read,"he answeredwith abrupt-ness, in a voice thatI
knew
alreadywas
not quitehis own.
I
was
puzzled.There was
something odd aboutthe
man.
At
last, aswas
inevitable, I suppose,he
began
to talk of the Chinese. Mrs. Win-grove said thesame
things aboutthem
that Ihad
alreadyheardsomany
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 futurewas
prom-ising.
They
no longer believed in their old godsand
thepower
of the literatiwas
broken. It isan
attitude of mistrustand
dislike temperedby
optimism.But
Mr.
Wingrove
mitigatedhis wife's strictures.He
dwelt on the good-nature of the Chinese,on
their devotion to their parentsand
on
their love for their children.ON
A
CHINESE SCREEN
"Mr. Wingrove
won't hear aword
against the'Chinese," saidhis wife, "he simply loves them."
"I think they have great qualities," he said.
"You
can't walk through those crowded streetsof
theirs without having that impressed on you." "I don't believeMr.
Wingrove
notices thesmells," hiswifelaughed.
At
thatmoment
there was a knock at the doorand
ayoung
woman
came
in. Shehad
the long skirtsand
theunbound
feet of the nativeChris-tian,
and on
her face a look thatwas
at once cringingand
sullen. She said something to Mrs. Wingrove. Ihappened
to catch sight ofMr.
Wingrove's face.
When
hesaw
her there passedoverit an expression of the mostintensephysical
repulsion,it
was
distorted as thoughby
an odourthat nauseated him,
and
then immediately itvan-ished
and
his lips twitched to a pleasant smile; but the effortwas
too greatand
he showed onlya tortured grimace. I looked at
him
withamaze-ment. Mrs.
Wingrove
withan
"excuseme"
gotup
and
left the room."That
is one of our teachers," saidMr.
Win-grove in thatsame
set voice whichhad
a little puzzledme
before. "She's invaluable. I put in-finite reliance on her. She has a very finechar-acter."
Then, I hardly
know
why, in aflash Isaw
the truth; Isaw
the disgust in his soul for all thathis will loved. I
was
filled with the excitement"which