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diff --git a/13118-0.txt b/13118-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1ac1421 --- /dev/null +++ b/13118-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1301 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13118 *** + +PROFILES FROM CHINA + +Sketches in Free Verse of People and Things Seen in the Interior + +by + +EUNICE TIETJENS + +1917 + + + + + + + +To My Mother + + + +CONTENTS + +PROEM + The Hand + +FROM THE INTERIOR + Cormorants + A Scholar + The Story Teller + The Well + The Abandoned God + The Bridge + The Shop + My Servant + The Feast + The Beggar + Interlude + The City Wall + Woman + Our Chinese Acquaintance + The Spirit Wall + The Most-Sacred Mountain + The Dandy + New China: The Iron Works + Spring + Meditation + Chinese New Year + +ECHOES + Crepuscule + Festival of the Dragon Boats + Kang Yi + Poetics + A Lament of Scarlet Cloud + The Son of Heaven + The Dream + Fêng-Shui + +CHINA OF THE TOURISTS + Reflections in a Ricksha + The Camels + The Connoisseur: An American + Sunday in the British Empire: Hong Kong + On the Canton River Boat + The Altar of Heaven + The Chair Ride + The Sikh Policeman: a British Subject + The Lady of Easy Virtue: an American + In the Mixed Court: Shanghai + + + + +Proem + + +Profiles +from +China + + +The Hand + +As you sit so, in the firelight, your hand is the color of + new bronze. +I cannot take my eyes from your hand; +In it, as in a microcosm, the vast and shadowy Orient + is made visible. +Who shall read me your hand? + +You are a large man, yet it is small and narrow, like the + hand of a woman and the paw of a chimpanzee. +It is supple and boneless as the hands wrought in pigment + by a fashionable portrait painter. The tapering + fingers bend backward. +Between them burns a scented cigarette. You poise it + with infinite daintiness, like a woman under the + eyes of her lover. The long line of your curved + nail is fastidiousness made flesh. + +Very skilful is your hand. +With a tiny brush it can feather lines of ineffable suggestion, + glints of hidden beauty. With a little + tool it can carve strange dreams in ivory and + milky jade. + +And cruel is your hand. +With the same cold daintiness and skill it can devise + exquisite tortures, eternities of incredible pain, + that Torquemada never glimpsed. +And voluptuous is your hand, nice in its sense of touch. +Delicately it can caress a quivering skin, softly it can + glide over golden thighs.... Bilitis had not + such long nails. + +Who can read me your hand? +In the firelight the smoke curls up fantastically from + the cigarette between your fingers which are the + color of new bronze. +The room is full of strange shadows. +I am afraid of your hand.... + + +From +the +Interior + +Cormorants + + +The boats of your masters are black; +They are filthy with the slimy filth of ages; like the + canals on which they float they give forth an evil + smell. +On soiled perches you sit, swung out on either side over + the scummy water--you who should be savage + and untamed, who should ride on the clean breath + of the sea and beat your pinions in the strong + storms of the sea. +Yet you are not held. +Tamely you sit and willingly, ten wretches to a boat, + lurching and half asleep. + +Around each throat is a ring of straw, a small ring, so + that you may swallow only small things, such as + your masters desire. +Presently, when you reach the lake, you will dive. +At the word of your masters the parted waters will + close over you and in your ears will be the gurgling + of yellow streams. +Hungrily you will search in the darkened void, swiftly + you will pounce on the silver shadow.... +Then you will rise again, bearing in your beak the + struggling prey, +And your lousy lords, whose rings are upon your + throats, will take from you the catch, giving in its + place a puny wriggler which can pass the gates of + straw. +Such is your servitude. + +Yet willingly you sit, lurching and half asleep. +The boatmen shout one to another in nasal discords. + Lazily you preen your great wings, eagle wings, + built for the sky; +And you yawn.... + +Faugh! The sight of you sickens me, divers in inland + filth! +You grow lousy like your lords, +For you have forgotten the sea. + + Wusih + + +A Scholar + +You sit, chanting the maxims of Confucius. +On your head is a domed cap of black satin and your + supple hands with their long nails are piously + folded. +You rock to and fro rhythmically. +Your voice, rising and falling in clear nasal monosyllables, + flows on steadily, monotonously, like the + flowing of water and the flowering of thought. +You are chanting, it seems, of the pious conduct of man + in all ages, +And I know you for a scoundrel. + +None the less the maxims of Confucius are venerable, + and your voice pleasant. +I listen attentively.... + + Wusih + + +The Story Teller + +In a corner of the market-place he sits, his face the target + for many eyes. +The sombre crowd about him is motionless. Behind + their faces no lamp burns; only their eyes glow + faintly with a reflected light. +For their eyes are on his face. +It alone is alive, is vibrant, moving bronze under a sun + of bronze. +The taut skin, like polished metal, shines along his + cheek and jaw. His eyes cut upward from a slender + nose, and his quick mouth moves sharply out + and in. + +Artful are the gestures of his mouth, elaborate and + full of guile. When he draws back the bow of + his lips his face is like a mask of lacquer, set with + teeth of pearl, fantastic, terrible.... +What strange tale lives in the gestures of his mouth? +Does a fox-maiden, bewitching, tiny-footed, lure a + scholar to his doom? Is an unfilial son tortured + of devils? Or does a decadent queen sport with + her eunuchs? + +I cannot tell. +The faces of the people are wooden; only their eyes + burn dully with a reflected light. +I shall never know. +I am alien ... alien. + + Nanking + + +The Well + +The Second Well under Heaven lies at the foot of the + Sacred Mountain. +Perhaps the well is sacred because it is clean; or perhaps + it is clean because it is sacred. +I cannot tell. + +At the bottom of the well are coppers and coins with + square holes in them, thrown thither by devout + hands. They gleam enticingly through the shallow + water. +The people crowd about the well, leaning brown covetous + faces above the coping as my copper falls + slantwise to rest. + +Perhaps it will bring me luck, who knows? +It is a very sacred well. +Or perhaps, when it is quite dark, someone who is + hungry.... +Then the luck will be his! + + The Village of the Mud Idols + + +The Abandoned God + +In the cold darkness of eternity he sits, this god who + has grown old. +His rounded eyes are open on the whir of time, but + man who made him has forgotten him. + +Blue is his graven face, and silver-blue his hands. His + eyebrows and his silken beard are scarlet as the + hope that built him. +The yellow dragon on his rotting robes still rears itself + majestically, but thread by thread time eats its + scales away, +And man who made him has forgotten him. + +For incense now he breathes the homely smell of rice + and tea, stored in his anteroom; +For priests the busy spiders hang festoons between his + fingers, and nest them in his yellow nails. +And darkness broods upon him. +The veil that hid the awful face of godhead from the + too impetuous gaze of worshippers serves in decay + to hide from deity the living face of man, +So god no longer sees his maker. + +Let us drop the curtain and be gone! +I am old too, here in eternity. + + Pa-tze-kiao + + +The Bridge + +The Bridge of the Eight Scholars spans the canal narrowly. +On the gray stone of its arch are carvings in low relief, + and the curve of its span is pleasing to the eye. +No one knows how old is the Bridge of the Eight + Scholars. + +In our house-boat we pass under it. The boatman + with the rat-like face twists the long broken-backed + oar, churning the yellow water, and we creep forward + steadily. +On the bridge the village is assembled. Foreign devils + are a rarity. +The gold-brown faces are not unfriendly, merely curious. + They peer in rows over the rail with grunts + of nasal interest. +Tentatively, experimentally, as we pass they spit down + upon us. Not that they wish us ill, but it can be + done, and the temptation is too great. + +We retire into the house-boat. +The roof scrapes as we pass under the span of the + Bridge of the Eight Scholars. + + Pa-tze-kiao + + +The Shop + +(The articles sold here are to be burned at funerals for +the use of the dead in the spirit world.) + +The master of the shop is a pious man, in good odor + with the priests. +He is old and honorable and his white moustache + droops below his chin. +Mencius, I think, looked so. + +The shop behind him is a mimic world, a world + of pieties and shams--the valley of remembrance--the + dwelling place of the unquiet dead. +Here on his shelves are ranged the splendor and the + panoply of life, silk in smooth gleaming rolls, silver + in ingots, carving and embroidery and jade, a + scarlet bearer-chair, a pipe for opium.... +Whatever life has need of, it is here, +And it is for the dead. + +Whatever life has need of, it is here. Yet it is here in + sham, in effigy, in tortured compromise. +The dead have need of silk. Yet silk is dear, and + there are living backs to clothe. +The rolls are paper.... Do not look too close. + +The dead I think will understand. +The carvings, too, the bearer-chair, the jade--yes, + they are paper; and the shining ingots, they are + tinsel. +Yet they are made with skill and loving care! +And if the priest knows--surely he must know!-- + when they are burned they'll serve the dead as + well as verities. +So living mouths can feed. + +The master of the shop is a pious man. He has attained + much honor and his white moustache droops + below his chin. +"Such an one" he says "I burned for my own father. +And such an one my son will burn for me. +For I am old, and half my life already dwells among + the dead." + +And, as he speaks, behind him in the shop I feel the + presence of a hovering host, the myriads of the + immortal dead, the rulers of the spirit in this + land.... + +For in this kingdom of the dead they who are living + cling with fevered hands to the torn fringes of the + mighty past. And if they fail a little, compromise.... + +The dead I think will understand. + + Soochow + + +My Servant + +The feet of my servant thump on the floor. _Thump,_ + they go, and _thump_--dully, deformedly. +My servant has shown me her feet. +The instep has been broken upward into a bony cushion. + The big toe is pointed as an awl. The small + toes are folded under the cushioned instep. Only + the heel is untouched. +The thing is white and bloodless with the pallor of + dead flesh. + +But my servant is quite contented. +She smiles toothlessly and shows me how small are her + feet, her "golden lilies." + +_Thump_, they go, and _thump!_ + + Wusih + + +The Feast + +So this is the wedding feast! +The room is not large, but it is heavily crowded, filled + with small tables, filled with many human bodies. +About the walls are paintings and banners in sharp + colors; above our heads hang innumerable gaudy + lanterns of wood and paper. We sit in furs, + shivering with the cold. +The food passes endlessly, droll combinations in brown + gravies--roses, sugar, and lard--duck and + bamboo--lotus, chestnuts, and fish-eggs--an + "eight-precious pudding." +They tempt curiosity; my chop-sticks are busy. The + warm rice-wine trickles sparingly. + +The groom is invisible somewhere, but the bride + martyrs among us. She is clad in scarlet satin, + heavily embroidered with gold. On her head is + an edifice of scarlet and pearls. +For weeks, I know, she has wept in protest. +The feast-mother leads her in to us with sacrificial + rites. Her eyes are closed, hidden behind her + curtain of strung beads; for three days she will + not open them. She has never seen the bridegroom. + +At the feast she sits like her own effigy. She neither + eats nor speaks. +Opposite her, across the narrow table, is a wall of + curious faces, lookers-on--children and half-grown + boys, beggars and what-not--the gleanings + of the streets. +They are quiet but they watch hungrily. +To-night, when the bridegroom draws the scarlet curtains + of the bed, they will still be watching + hungrily.... + +Strange, formless memories out of books struggle upward + in my consciousness. This is the marriage + at Cana.... I am feasting with the Caliph + at Bagdad.... I am the wedding guest who + beat his breast.... +My heart is troubled. +What shall be said of blood-brotherhood between man + and man? + + Wusih + + +The Beggar + +_Christ! What is that--that--Thing? +Only a beggar, professionally maimed, I think._ + +Across the narrow street it lies, the street where little + children are. +It is rocking its body back and forth, back and forth, + ingratiatingly, in the noisome filth. +Beside the body are stretched two naked stumps of + flesh, on one the remnant of a foot. The wounds + are not new wounds, but they are open and they + fester. There are flies on them. +The Thing is whining, shrilly, hideously. + +_Professionally maimed, I think._ +Christ! + + Hwai Yuen + + +Interlude + +It is going to be hot here. +Already the sun is treacherous and a dull mugginess is + in the air. I note that winter clothes are shedding + one by one. + +In the market-place sits a coolie, expanding in the + warmth. +He has opened his ragged upper garments and his + bronze body is naked to the belt. +He is examining it minutely, occasionally picking at + something with the dainty hand of the Orient. +If he had ever seen a zoological garden I should say + he was imitating the monkeys there. +As he has not, I dare say the taste is ingrained. + +At all events it is going to be hot here. + + The Village of the Mud Idols + + +The City Wall + +About the city where I dwell, guarding it close, runs + an embattled wall. +It was not new I think when Arthur was a king, and + plumèd knights before a British wall made brave + clangor of trumpets, that Launcelot came forth. +It was not new I think, and now not it but chivalry is + old. + +Without, the wall is brick, with slots for firing, and it + drops straightway into the evil moat, where offal + floats and nameless things are thrown. +Within, the wall is earth; it slants more gently down, + covered with grass and stubbly with cut weeds. + Below it in straw lairs the beggars herd, patiently + whining, stretching out their sores. +And on the top a path runs. + +As I walk, lifted above the squalor and the dirt, the + timeless miracle of sunset mantles in the west, +The blue dusk gathers close +And beauty moves immortal through the land. +And I walk quickly, praying in my heart that beauty + will defend me, will heal up the too great wounds + of China. + +I will not look--to-night I will not look--where at + my feet the little coffins are, +The boxes where the beggar children lie, unburied + and unwatched. +I will not look again, for once I saw how one was + broken, torn by the sharp teeth of dogs. A little + tattered dress was there, and some crunched + bones.... +I need not look. What can it help to look? + +Ah, I am past! +And still the sunset glows. +The tall pagoda, like a velvet flower, blossoms against + the sky; the Sacred Mountain fades, and in the + town a child laughs suddenly. +I will hold fast to beauty! Who am I, that I should + die for these? + +I will go down. I am too sorely hurt, here on the + city wall. + + Wusih + + +Woman + +Strangely the sight of you moves me. +I have no standard by which to appraise you; the outer + shell of you is all I know. +Yet irresistibly you draw me. + +Your small plump body is closely clad in blue brocaded + satin. The fit is scrupulous, yet no woman's figure + is revealed. You are decorously shapeless. +Your satin trousers even are lined with fur. +Your hair is stiff and lustrous as polished ebony, bound + at the neck in an adamantine knot, in which dull + pearls are encrusted. + +Your face is young and round and inscrutably alien. +Your complexion is exquisite, matte gold over-lying + blush pink, textured like ripe fruit. +Your nose is flat, the perfect nose of China. +Your eyes--your eyes are witchery! +The blank curtain of your upper lid droops sharply on + the iris, and when you smile the corners twinkle + upward. +It is your eyes, I think, that move me. +They are so bright, so black! +They are alert and full of curiosity as the eyes of a + squirrel, and like the eyes of a squirrel they have + no depth behind them. +They are windows opening on a world as small as your + bound feet, a world of ignorances, and vacuities, + and kitchen-gods. + +And yet your eyes are witchery. When you smile you + are the woman-spirit, adorable. + +I cannot appraise you, yet strangely the sight of you + moves me. +I believe that I shall dream of you. + + Pa-tze-kiao + + +Our Chinese Acquaintance + +We met him in the runway called a street, between the + warrens known as houses. +He looked still the same, but his French-cut tweeds, + his continental hat, and small round glasses were + alien here. +About him we felt a troubled uncertainty. + +He greeted us gladly. "It is good," he said in his + soft French, "to see my foreign friends again. +You find our city dirty I am sure. On every stone + dirt grows in China. +How the people crowd! The street is choked. _No + jee ba_! Go away, curious ones! The ladies + cannot breathe.... +No, my people are not clean. They do not understand, + I think. In Belgium where I studied-- + ... Yes, I was studying in Bruges, studying + Christianity, when the great war came. +We, you know, love peace. I could not see.... + +"So I came home. + +"But China is very dirty.... Our priests are rascals, + and the people ... I do not know. + +"Is there, perhaps, a true religion somewhere? The + Greeks died too--and they were clean." +Behind his glasses his slant eyes were troubled. +"I do not know," he said. + + Wusih + + +The Spirit Wall + +It stands before my neighbor's door, between him and + the vegetable garden and the open toilet pots and + the dirty canal. +Not that he wishes to hide these things. +On the contrary, he misses the view. +But China, you must understand, is full of evil spirits, + demons of the earth and air, foxes and _shui-mang_ + devils, and only the priest knows what beside. +A man may at any moment be bewitched, so that his + silk-worms die and his children go blind and he + gets the devil-sickness. +So living is difficult. +But Heaven has providentially decreed that these evil + spirits can travel only in a straight line. Around + a corner their power evaporates. +So my neighbor has built a wall that runs before his + door. Windows of course he has none. +He cannot see his vegetable garden, and his toilet pots, + and the dirty canal. +But he is quite safe! + + Wusih + + +The Most-Sacred Mountain + +Space, and the twelve clean winds of heaven, +And this sharp exultation, like a cry, after the slow + six thousand steps of climbing! +This is Tai Shan, the beautiful, the most holy. + +Below my feet the foot-hills nestle, brown with flecks + of green; and lower down the flat brown plain, the + floor of earth, stretches away to blue infinity. +Beside me in this airy space the temple roofs cut their + slow curves against the sky, +And one black bird circles above the void. + +Space, and the twelve clean winds are here; +And with them broods eternity--a swift, white peace, + a presence manifest. +The rhythm ceases here. Time has no place. This + is the end that has no end. + +Here when Confucius came, a half a thousand years + before the Nazarene, he stepped, with me, thus + into timelessness. +The stone beside us waxes old, the carven stone that + says: _On this spot once Confucius stood and + felt the smallness of the world below._ + +The stone grows old. +Eternity +Is not for stones. + +But I shall go down from this airy space, this swift + white peace, this stinging exultation; +And time will close about me, and my soul stir to the + rhythm of the daily round. +Yet, having known, life will not press so close, and + always I shall feel time ravel thin about me; +For once I stood +In the white windy presence of eternity. + + Tai Shan + + +The Dandy + +He swaggers in green silk and his two coats are lined + with fur. Above his velvet shoes his trim, bound + ankles twinkle pleasantly. +His nails are of the longest. +Quite the glass of fashion is Mr. Chu! +In one slim hand--the ultimate punctilio--dangles + a bamboo cage, wherein a small brown bird sits + with a face of perpetual surprise. +Mr. Chu smiles the benevolent smile of one who satisfies + both fashion and a tender heart. +Does not a bird need an airing? + + Wusih + + +New China: The Iron Works + +The furnaces, the great steel furnaces, tremble and + glow; gigantic machinery clanks, and in living + iridescent streams the white-hot slag pours out. +This is to-morrow set in yesterday, the west imbedded + in the east, a graft but not a growth. + +And you who walk beside me, picking your familiar way + between the dynamos, the cars, the piles of rails-- + you too are of to-morrow, grafted with an alien + energy. +You wear the costume of the west, you speak my + tongue as one who knows; you talk casually of + Sheffield, Pittsburgh, Essen.... +You touch on Socialism, walk-outs, and the industrial + population of the British Isles. +Almost you might be one of us. + +And then I ask: +"How much do those poor coolies earn a day, who + take the place of carts?" +You shrug and smile. +"Eighteen coppers. Something less than eight cents + in your money. They are not badly paid. They + do not die." + +Again I ask: +"And is it true that you've a Yâmen, a police judge, + all your own?" +Another shrug and smile. +"Yes, he attends to all small cases of disorder. For + larger crimes we pass the offender over to the + city courts." + + * * * * * + +"Conditions" you explain as we sit later with a cup + of tea, "conditions here are difficult." +Your figure has grown lax, your voice a little weary. + You are fighting, I can see, upheld by that strange + graft of western energy. +Yet odds are heavy, and the Orient is in your blood. + Your voice is weary. +"There are no skilled laborers" you say, "Among + the owners no coöperation. +It is like--like working in a nightmare, here in China. + It drags at me, it drags".... +You bow me out with great civility. +The furnaces, the great steel furnaces, tremble and + glow, gigantic machinery clanks and in living + iridescent streams the white-hot slag pours out. + +Beyond the gate the filth begins again. +A beggar rots and grovels, clutching at my skirt with + leprous hands. A woman sits sorting hog-bristles; + she coughs and sobs. + +The stench is sickening. + +_To-morrow!_ did they say? + + Hanyang + + +Spring + +The toilet pots are very loud today. +It is spring and the warmth is highly favorable to fermentation. + Some odors are unbelievable. + +At the corner of my street is an especially fragrant + reservoir. It is three feet in diameter, set flush + with the earth, and well filled. +Above it squats a venerable Chinaman with a face such + as Confucius must have worn. +His silk skirt is gathered daintily about his waist, and + his rounded rear is suspended in mid-air over the + broken pottery rim. +He gazes at me contemplatively as I pass with eyes in + which the philosophy of the ages has its dwelling. + +I wonder whether he too feels the spring. + + Wusih + + +Meditation + +In all the city where I dwell two spaces only are wide + and clean. +One is the compound about the great church of the + mission within the wall; the other is the courtyard + of the great factory beyond the wall. +In these two, one can breathe. + +And two sounds there are, above the multitudinous crying + of the city, two sounds that recur as time recurs--the + great bell of the mission and the + whistle of the factory. +Every hour of the day the mission bell strikes, clear, + deep-toned--telling perhaps of peace. +And in the morning and in the evening the factory + whistle blows, shrill, provocative--telling surely + of toil. +Now, when the mulberry trees are bare and the wintry + wind lifts the rags of the beggars, the day shift + at the factory is ten hours, and the night shift + is fourteen. +They are divided one from the other by the whistle, + shrill, provocative. +The mission and the factory are the West. What + they are I know. + +And between them lies the Orient--struggling and + suffering, spawning and dying--but what it is + I shall never know. + +Yet there are two clean spaces in the city where I dwell, + the compound of the church within the wall, and + the courtyard of the factory beyond the wall. +It is something that in these two one can breathe. + + Wusih + + +Chinese New Year + +Mrs. Sung has a new kitchen-god. +The old one--he who has presided over the household + this twelvemonth--has returned to the + Celestial Regions to make his report. +Before she burned him Mrs. Sung smeared his mouth + with sugar; so that doubtless the report will be + favorable. +Now she has a new god. +As she paid ten coppers for him he is handsomely + painted and should be highly efficacious. +So there is rejoicing in the house of Mrs. Sung. + + Peking + + +Echoes + + +Crepuscule + +Like the patter of rain on the crisp leaves of autumn + are the tiny footfalls of the fox-maidens. + + +Festival of the Dragon Boats + +On the fifth day of the fifth month the statesman Küh + Yuen drowned himself in the river Mih-lo. +Since then twenty-three centuries have passed, and the + mountains wear away. +Yet every year, on the fifth day of the fifth month, + the great Dragon Boats, gay with flags and gongs, + search diligently in the streams of the Empire + for the body of Küh Yuen. + + +Kang Yi + +When Kang Yi had been long dead the Empress decreed + upon him posthumous decapitation, so that + he walks for ever disgraced among the shades. + + +Poetics + +While two ladies of the Imperial harem held before + him a screen of pink silk, and a P'in Concubine + knelt with his ink-slab, Li Po, who was very + drunk, wrote an impassioned poem to the moon. + + +A Lament of Scarlet Cloud + +O golden night, lit by the flame of seven stars, the + years have drunk you too. + + +The Son of Heaven + +Like this frail and melancholy rain is the memory of + the Emperor Kuang-Hsü, and of his sufferings at + the hand of Yehonala. +Yet under heaven was there found no one to avenge + him. +Now he has mounted the Dragon and has visited the + Nine Springs. His betrayer sits upon the Dragon + Throne. + +Yet among the shades may he not take comfort from + the presence of his Pearl Concubine? + + +The Dream + +When he had tasted in a dream of the Ten Courts of + Purgatory, Doctor Tsêng was humbled in spirit, + and passed his life in piety among the foot-hills. + + +Fêng-Shui + +At the Hour of the Horse avoid raising a roof-tree, + for by the trampling of his hoofs it may + be beaten down; +And at the Hour of the cunning Rat go not near a + soothsayer, for by his cunning he may mislead + the oracle, and the hopes of the enquirer come + to naught. + + +China +of +the +Tourists + + +Reflections in a Ricksha + +This ricksha is more comfortable than some. +The springs are not broken, and the seat is covered + with a white cloth. +Also the runner is young and sturdy, and his legs flash + pleasantly. +I am not ill at ease. + +The runner interests me. +Between the shafts he trots easily and familiarly, lifting + his knees prettily and holding his shoulders + steady. +His hips are lean and narrow as a filly's; his calves + might have posed for Praxiteles. +He is a modern, I perceive, for he wears no queue. +Above a rounded neck rises a shock of hair the shade + of dusty coal. Each hair is stiff and erect as a + brush bristle. There are lice in them no doubt-- + but then perhaps we of the West are too squeamish + in details of this minor sort. +What interests me chiefly is the back of his ears. Not + that they are extraordinary as ears; it is their + very normality that touches me. I find them + smaller than those of a horse, but undoubtedly + near of kin. + +There is no denying the truth of evolution; +Yet as a beast of burden man is distinctly inferior. + +It is odd. +At home I am a democrat. A republic, a true republic, + seems not improbable, a fighting dream. +Yet beholding the back of the ears of a trotting man + I perceive it to be impossible--the millennium + another million years away. +I grow insufferably superior and Anglo-Saxon. +I am sorry, but what would you? +One is what one is. + + Hankow + + +The Camels + +Whence do you come, and whither make return, you + silent padding beasts? +Over the mountain passes; through the Great Wall; to + Kalgan--and beyond, whither?... + +Here in the city you are alien, even as I am alien. +Your sidling jaw, your pendulous neck--incredible--and + that slow smile about your eyes and lip, + these are not of this land. +About you some far sense of mystery, some tawny + charm, hangs ever. +Silently, with the dignity of the desert, your caravans + move among the hurrying hordes, remote and + slowly smiling. + +But whence are you, and whither do you make return? +Over the mountain passes; through the Great Wall; to + Kalgan--and beyond, whither?... + + Peking + + +The Connoisseur: An American + +He is not an old man, but he is lonely. +He who was born in the clash of a western city dwells + here, in this silent courtyard, alone. +Seven servants he has, seven men-servants. They + move about quietly and their slippered feet make + no sound. Behind their almond eyes move green, + sidelong shadows, and their limber hands are + never still. +In his house the riches of the Orient are gathered. +Ivory he has, carved in a thousand quaint, enticing + shapes--pleasant to the hand, smooth with the + caressing of many fingers. +And jade is there, dark green and milky white, with + amber from Korea and strange gems--beryl, + chrysoprase, jasper, sardonyx.... +His lacquered shelves hold priceless pottery--peachblow + and cinnabar and silver grey--pottery + glazed like the new moon, fired how long ago + for a moon-pale princess of the East, whose very + name is dust! + +In his vaults are incredible textures and colors that + vibrate like struck jade. + +Stiff with gold brocade they are, or soft as the coat of + a fawn--these sacred robes of a long dead priest, + silks of a gold-skinned courtesan, embroideries of + a lost throne. +When he unfolds them the shimmering heaps are like + living opals, burning and moving darkly with the + warm breath of beauty. + +And other priceless things the collector has, so that + in many days he could not look upon them all. +Every morning his seven men-servants dress him, and + every evening they undress him. Behind their + almond eyes move green sidelong shadows. +In this silent courtyard the collector lives. +He is not an old man but he is lonely. + + Peking + + +Sunday in the British Empire: Hong Kong + +In the aisle of the cathedral it lies, an army rifle of + the latest type. +It is laid on the black and white mosaic, between the + carved oaken pews and the strip of brown carpet + in the aisle. +A crimson light from the stained-glass window yonder + glints on the blue steel of its barrel, and the + khaki of its shoulder-strap blends with the brown + of the carpet. + +The stiff backs of its owner and a hundred like him + are very still. +The vested choir chants prettily. +Then the bishop speaks: +"O God, who art the author of peace and lover of + concord,... defend us thy humble servants + in all assaults of our enemies." +"Amen!" say the owners of the khaki backs. + +The light has shifted a little. On the blue steel barrel + of the rifle the glint is turquoise now. +That will be from the robe of the shepherd in the window + yonder, He of the quiet eyes.... + + Hong Kong + + +On the Canton River Boat + +Up and down, up and down, paces the sentry. +He is dressed in a uniform of khaki and his socks are + green. Over his shoulder is slung a rifle, and + from his belt hang a pistol and cartridge pouch. +He is, I think, Malay and Chinese mixed. + +Behind him the rocky islands, hazed in blue, the yellow + sun-drenched water, the tropic shore, pass as a + background in a dream. +He only is sweltering reality. +Yet he is here to guard against a nightmare, an + anachronism, something that I cannot grasp. +He is guarding me from pirates. + +Piracy! The very name is fantastic in my ears, colored + like a toucan in the zoo. +And yet the ordinance is clear: "Four armed guards, + strong metal grills behind the bridge, the engine-room + enclosed--in case of piracy." + +The socks of the sentry are green. +Up and down, up and down he paces, between the + bridge and the first of the life-boats. +In my deck chair I grow restless. + +Am I then so far removed from life, so wrapped in + cotton wool, so deep-sunk in the soft lap of civilization, + that I cannot feel the cold splash of truth? +It is a disquieting thought--for certainly piracy seems + as fantastic as ever. + +The socks of the sentry annoy me. They are _too_ + green for so hot a day. +And his shoes squeak. +I should feel much cooler if he wouldn't pace so. +Piracy! + + Somewhere on the River + + +The Altar of Heaven + +Beneath the leaning, rain-washed sky this great white + circle--beautiful! + +In three white terraces the circle lies, piled one on + one toward Heaven. And on each terrace the + white balustrade climbs in aspiring marble, etched + in cloud. +And Heaven is very near. +For this is worship native as the air, wide as the + wind, and poignant as the rain, +Pure aspiration, the eternal dream. + +Beneath the leaning sky this great white circle! + + Peking + + +The Chair Ride + +The coolies lift and strain; +My chair creaks rhythmically. +It is not yet morning and the live darkness pushes + about us, a greedy darkness that has swallowed + even the stars. +In all the world there is left only my chair, with the + tiny horn lantern before it. +There are also, it is true, the undersides of trees in + the lantern-light and the stony path that flows + past ceaselessly. +But these things flit and change. +Only I and the chair and the darkness are permanent. + We have been moving so since time was in the + womb. + +The seat of my chair is of wicker. +It is not unlike an invalid chair, and I, in it, am swaddled + like an invalid, wrapped in layer on layer + of coddling wool. +But there are no wheels to my chair. I ride on the + steady feet of four queued coolies. +The tramp of their lifted shoes is the rhythm of being, + throbbing in me as my own heart throbs. + +Save for their feet the bearers are silent. They move + softly through the live darkness. But now and + again I am shifted skilfully from one shoulder to + the other. + +The breath of the coolies is short. +They strain, and in spite of the cold I know they are + sweating. +It is wicked of course! +My five dollars ought not to buy life. +But it is all they understand; +And even I am not precisely comfortable. + +The darkness is thinning a little. +On either side loom featureless black hills, their summits + sharp and ragged. +The Great Wall is somewhere hereabouts. + +My chair creaks rhythmically. +In another year it will be day. + + Ching-lung-chiao + + +The Sikh Policeman: A British Subject + +Of what, I wonder, are you thinking? +It is something beyond my world I know, something + that I cannot guess. +Yet I wonder. + +Of nothing Chinese can you be thinking, for you hate + them with an automatic hatred--the hatred of + the well-fed for the starved, of the warlike for + the weak. +When they cross you, you kick them, viciously, with + the drawing back of your silken beard, your + black, black beard, from your white teeth. +With a snarl you kick them, sputtering curses in short + gutturals. +You do not even speak their tongue, so it cannot be + of them you are thinking. + +Yet neither do you speak the tongue of the master + whom you serve. +No more do you know of us the "Masters" than you + know of them the "dogs." +We are above you, they below. +And between us you stand, guarding the street, erect + and splendid, lithe and male. Your scarlet turban + frames your neat black head, +And you are thinking. + +Or are you? +Perhaps we only are stung with thought. +I wonder. + + Shanghai + + +The Lady of Easy Virtue: An American + +_Lotus_, +So they called your name. +Yet the green swelling pod, the fruit-like seeds and + heavy flower, are nothing like to you. +Rather, like a pitcher plant you are, for hope and all + young wings are drowned in you. + +Your slim body, here in the café, moves brightly in + and out. Green satin, and a dance, white wine + and gleaming laughter, with two nodding earrings--these + are Lotus. +And in the painted eyes cold steel, and on the lips a + vulgar jest; +Hands that fly ever to the coat lapels, familiar to + the wrists and to the hair of men. These too + are Lotus. +And what more--God knows! + +You too perhaps were stranded here, like these poor + homesick boys, in this great catch-all where the + white race ends, this grim Shanghai that like a + sieve hangs over filth and loneliness. +You were caught here like these, and who could live, + young and so slender--in Shanghai? +Green satin, and a gleaming throat, and painted eyes + of steel, +Hunter or hunted, +Peace be with you, +_Lotus_! + + Shanghai + + +In the Mixed Court: Shanghai + +Two men sit in judgment on their fellows. +Side by side they sit, raised on the pedestal of the law, + at grips with squalor and ignorance. +They are civilization--and they are very grave. + +One of them is of my own people, a small man, definite, + hard-featured, an accurate weapon of small + calibre. +Of the other I cannot judge. +He is heavily built, and when he is still the dignity of + the Orient is about him like his robe. His head + is large and beautifully domed, his hands tapering + and aristocratic. +When he speaks it is of subtleties. +But when he speaks his dignity drops from him. His + eyes shift quickly from one end of their little slit + to the other, his mouth, his full brown mouth, + moves over-fast, his hands flicker back and forth. + +The courtroom is crowded with ominous yellow poverty. +The cases are of many sorts. +A woman, she of the little tortured feet and sullen face, + has kidnapped a small boy to sell. A man was + caught smuggling opium. A tea-merchant, in + dark green silk, complains that he was decoyed + and held prisoner in a lodging-house for ransom. + A gambling den has been raided and the ivory + dominoes are shown in court. +The prisoners are stoically sullen. The odor of them + fills the room. + +Above them sit the two men, raised on the pedestal + of the law, judging their fellows. +I turn to the man beside me, waiting his case. +"Tell me" I ask "of these men, which is the better + judge?" +He answers carefully. +"The Chinaman is cleverer by half. He sees where + the other is blind. But Chinese magistrates are + bought, and this one sells himself too cheap." +"And the other?" I ask again. +"A good man, and quite honest. You see he doesn't + care." + +The judges put their heads together. They are civilization + and they are very grave. +What, I wonder, is civilization? + + Shanghai + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13118 *** |