Chinese Sketches

I. YELLOW REASON.

A NARROW, ragged street crawled up the side of a hill. At the top was a low Buddhist monastery, creeping just to the ridge, and beyond were two modern houses with two flagstaffs flying foreign colors.

The roadway led abruptly from a dense, swarming town ; a flat town, all of one color, — a gray that seemed to swell from roof to roof, like a great blot that finally merged in the distance into a vast gray sea. Low to the west a band of naked hills stood out against the sky, and between the hills and the sea of gray rolled the brown Yang-tse, wide as a lake, and lipping on in smooth brown waves. Near the banks huddled a swarming life of junks, and a host of tiny craft skimmed and hurried to and fro, like aimless water bugs. One slender vessel rode at anchor in the stream, — a long, white vessel with colors flying at her masthead, red and white.

All else was brown and gray and sullen : brown waters, brown skies, the great swelling sea of flat gray roofs, and under the gray roofs a restless, murmuring mass of stubborn yellow men.

In the midst of this life dwelt a cripple, a foul-mouthed, worthless creature, who whined and cursed, and begged for rags and food. One day he crept from his dirty passage out into the light. Hobbling and stumbling, lying on the ground to catch his breath, he dragged his wretched body up the narrow roadway. At the gateway of the foreign houses he squatted, huddling in his rags and whining shrilly for alms. All day he stayed there, and all one night, to be stumbled over by every passer-by.

At last, a house coolie, returning from an errand, struck at the beggar as be laid bold of his skirt. The cripple rolled over on bis side, and gave out piercing, hideous shrieks. In a minute he was surrounded by a wondering crowd, and to these he screamed forth curses on the white devils whose servant had been sent to take his life. Men came running from every side, seemed suddenly to spring from the ground, coolies stopped their work, and the crowd swelled to a multitude. Still the cripple kept on shrieking, and a low muttering in the crowd began to rise and fall, like the distant rumblings of a storm.

A native doctor was sent for, to stop the creature’s noise and to bring reason to the angry mob. The doctor came, and was swallowed up in a seething mass of men. The cripple was dying — was dead. So the word spread abroad. And the foreign devils on the hill, outlanders and disturbers of Chinese peace, were to blame. Then there was no check. The disturbance grew worse, until at night every street and alleyway near the little hill was filled with a surging sea of frenzied life, whose waves rose and fell by a strange internal force. As night crept on the tide pressed in. and crowding up the narrow passage swayed a moving mass of angry yellow faces. On they pushed, threatening, shouting vengeance in a harsh uproar that gained in volume and echoed to the limits of the mob, seething and struggling on in ignorant madness.

Down below, the town lay gray and silent with empty dwellings, waiting for the tide to turn to fill them to their brim. From the little monastery on the hillside came the regular pounding of gongs and tinkling of bells, as the priests moved about their prayers in stolid unconcern. But, in the houses on the hill was hideous fear, — fear of the unreasonable brutes surging about their walls, who would torture with the joy of fiends and trample life with merciless heel. Late that night, a shuddering group crept unseen to an outer gate, skulked along behind the town, and fled through the empty streets to the river bank beyond. And there a boat was waiting that took them to the warship lying in the stream.

Fighting, crowding, jamming up the narrow street, the crowd made its way, yelling in hoarse frenzy. Men fought and cursed in the wild surge forward, dug with vicious elbows, and beat and struck at one another. Some were trodden underfoot, and sharp screams of pain cut high above the tumult. On they pushed, —a dense mass of naked limbs, straining muscles, fierce, mad faces; a vast moving sea, swayed by a brutelike instinct.

Nearer the mob surged to the gate, — pressed so close that those in front gasped in terror, as they felt the strength of a resistless force driving from behind. Again shrieks rose, shrill despairing wails that broke at last to gurgling sobs, as men strove and fought to turn, in vain. Then the gate gave way, and a maddened. seething mass fell through the gap. With a hoarse shout, those behind sprang forward, and trampled down the wildly struggling heaps of men lying in their path. Through the open way they rushed, and made for the houses standing just beyond.

The vast mob paused, — welled up like a destroying sea, — then burst upon the dwellings. In they swept, flooding every corner, searching with frantic zeal for their trembling prey. Beds were torn open, mirrors and windows smashed, doorways burst through. But still the objects of their quest could not be found. Garments were dragged forth and torn to tatters. Pillows were split, and a rain of feathers was added to the chaos. Cabinets were upturned, ornaments broken in pieces, jewels and silver looted. The crowd jammed and swelled from floor to floor, foiled and desperate in its search. Wine cellars and pantries were entered, and their contents consumed. The riot raged more hotly. Men lay drunk in corners. And the mob, half crazed, turned upon itself and fought for possession. Knives were drawn, blood was spilled, and still life throbbed and beat at doors and windows, striving for admittance.

Then some one struck a light, and curls of smoke began to fill the rooms. There were louder shouts and yells of fear, and a rush was made for stairs and windows. Tiny yellow flames shot up through the dense brown smoke. And again men fought, — fought like wild things for their lives; stumbled, staggered, trod on one another, stamped out life in a fierce dash for liberty.

Out at last, — singed, scorched, bruised and bleeding, half suffocated and blinded by the smoke. So they surged into the bleak gray morn. The ground lay torn and blistered, and smeared with tattered rags and broken fragments from the riot beyond. Men lay bruised and senseless in limp, wretched heaps, and the morning air was thick and close with smoke.

The tide had turned, and the ebb set in. Those on the farther limits of the mob, still unconscious of motive, ceased their yells, and went back to the town. The battle above waged spasmodically. Personal feuds were still pursued, but the mob was broken and its object lost. By night the crowd had swarmed back to till the empty streets. And life moved on with stolid unconcern.

In three weeks Peking was paying heavily for destruction of property, and promising greater security to foreign life. Six weeks later the houses were practically rebuilt, and the hideous terror of a night was beginning to fade.

And sitting quietly at the foot of the hill was a cripple begging for alms.

II. FATHER AND SON.

Old Sung-Chow made boxes of camphor wood, and in his little shop they were piled high: smooth yellow boxes with neat brass corners, and with beautiful brown veins showing on their sides. They were of all sizes, and from the dark room where the men of Sung-Chow cut and rubbed this wood there came a clean, strong scent.

Sung-Chow no longer worked with his men, but sat beneath the swinging sign of black that bore his name in great gold letters, and watched the children playing in the dirty street. It was a very dirty street, a very narrow street, with many tiny shops crowded on both sides, and at each shop there hung a dangling board of red or black with straggling letters of gold. Some of these shops were filled, shelf on shelf, with square-bowled, long-stemmed pipes, some with silken, glovelike shoes, and others with jade and the work of the silversmiths. In many sat sleek merchants, with rolls and rolls of silk about them, and these chatted together and sipped their tea, or talked with the passers-by.

All day this street seethed with a mixed, noisy crowd. Coolies staggered through with heavy burdens on their shoulders, mandarins swayed past in closed sedan chairs, scholars with huge-rimmed goggles and cold, impassive faces stalked along, and whining beggars crouched low in the mud. Coarse coolie women in wide-flapping trousers squatted in the doorways and cooked their stringy, evilsmelling messes. Lepers raised their wretched hands for alms, and venders of strange wares, with boards balanced on their heads, picked a fearful way through the jostling crowd. And all day long was the narrow way filled with a harsh uproar that was made of the calls and screams of a dense, swarming life.

But Sung-Chow sat at his doorway in great unconcern and smoked a long pipe, fondled the bowl with slow old fingers, and watched the children at play. There were many children, with bright threads braided in their little pigtails and gay betasseled caps bobbing on their heads. There were many pigs and white bristling dogs, and these all lived and played in the dirt together. Yet of all the children Sung-Chow saw but the fat-limbed, brown - skinned Chwang : Chwang the pride and idol of his heart ; Chwang who ran and screamed with the children in the street. As he puffed, fond, slow thoughts bubbled up in his heart. He felt again the clasp of the little Chwang as he lay in his arms a babe ; Chwang the long-looked-for, long-prayed-for son, for whose life the gentle Ta Shi gave her own. And his heart beatat quickly with the thought of the clinging touch of the first-born.

Then the mind of Sung-Chow filled with pictures of his son grown to manhood. He saw him master of the shop, with boxes more smooth and beautiful than his own. He saw him in rich gowns of silk, on his hand a heavy ring of gold. Chwang would walk amongst his men with proud and haughty step, and they would bow and cringe before him. Mandarins and wealthy merchants would buy from him his wares, and the neighbors would envy him his trade. But the gods would look with favor upon him, and bless him with many sons. And he would cherish the memory of the old father, and stain his walls with the breath of much incense.

So for many months old Sung-Chow sat at his doorway, and smoked his pipe, and dreamed his fond, foolish dreams. And little Chwang played from morn till night with the children in the crowded street.

At last there came a summer when the street was vacant and men laid aside their work ; and all hearts were filled with dread. In the open lands lay nature overripe, and scorching winds hissed through the fields and withered the green earth brown. In the cities the streets were foul with the breath of disease, and low, thick vapors rose slowly from the earth. The temples were filled with throngs of troubled creatures, who dragged themselves before their tarnished gods and begged for succor. The great gods sat in stolid silence amid clouds of incense that rose about them night and day ; but they heard not, or would not hear, for often disease crept boldly to the very altars and clutched its wretched victim, and the shriek of the stricken mingled with the prayers and supplications of the fearful.

Sung-Chow sat at his door with cold fear griping at his heart, and listened with tense dread for the boom of cymbals as groups of wailing mourners trailed past his doorway. He watched with straining eyes the fluttering banners, and heard the harsh clang of metal as the weeping troop vanished down the empty street. Then he clasped his trembling hands and prayed to Joss and spirits that his little Chwang he spared. And within the empty room of the boxmakers Chwang played alone, and wondered at the sudden harshness of old Sung. Soon the stifling fumes of the doomed city rose thicker, and Sung-Chow crept fiercely to Chwang’s side and held him in a desperate grasp that would defy all foes. Men crawled to their homes and died like rats in holes. And many lay dead in the streets, to be seized upon by the loathsome vultures that fell upon their prey with greedy haste. Higher and thicker rose the sickening fumes, more dense and deathlike grew the air. A fearful, gasping silence rested upon the city ; and if life stirred there were but few to know, a few who crouched low and moved not from their dead.

One night there came a soft pant in the empty streets, and then another breath, and soon a windstorm broke over the steaming city, and shrieked and tore through the fever - smitten ways, and blew the stifling vapors far away. Then the rains broke, and poured great torrents down upon the blistered, parching earth, and cleansed the putrid air, and fell for days and nights. At last the earth raised her scorched and grateful face, and men drew trembling, fearful breaths of life. Soon those who had fled the city returned, and before long life seethed again in the narrow ways.

Once more Sung-Chow sat at his doorway ; but he sat as one dead, and stared before him with glazed, unseeing eyes. The neighbors tapped their heads and pointed to the sunken, ghastly face. But Sung-Chow only mumbled to himself, and called his child in hoarse, muffled whispers. At night he lay upon his couch, and seemed to feel again the tender little head upon his breast; but when he stretched out eager arms, he clasped the empty air. Then he knew he was alone, — alone in the torturing stillness of his hut, — and dry, dumb sobs tore at his soul. A black sorrow filled his heart to bursting, and yet he had no tears, — only a gnawing, desperate want that grew heavier as the days dragged by. At last the brain began to weaken, and Sung-Chow sat upon his stoop, a pitiful old man, and the life and clamor of a dense city moved past him unnoticed.

One night there came to old SungChow this strange, strange dream. He thought that again his hut was in the north, the far north where the river Peiho bends through wide green meadows. All about him fell the colors of the gloaming, and the air was soft, and sweet and filled with the fragrance of the spring. Fine, tender outlines stood etched against the evening sky, the rushes swayed and stirred, and from the dim, far-reaching meadows came soft, vast sounds of life. But Sung-Chow wandered alone and heavy-hearted in the darkening fields. Before him the Pei-ho twined and twisted, writhed through the meadows like a great serpent ; and, as it circled, the sails of many boats caught the last faint glow of twilight, and like a flock of phantom swans turned and drifted into the evening mists. On and on, in this old familiar land, Sung-Chow dragged his weary limbs, till in his path there rose a low red temple. And Sung-Chow paused and wondered at the unfamiliar shape, then slowly entered. All about him lay the silence of unspoken prayers, and the air rose thick with clouds of heavy sweetness. Before him in the dim smoke mists there sat a stranger god upon a throne. And as he looked, a soft light slowly spread and grew, and all the temple glowed as gold.

The lips of the strange god moved, then opened, and full, deep tones rolled out and out upon the thick, sweet waves of darkness. The sorry heart of SungChow trembled, was laid bare, and Joss spoke:—

“ Old man, the love of father to son is immortal. This seed planted in the soul of man, with life it grows, till mightier than man, stronger than mortal frame, it becomes. In thy soul this seed has sprouted, borne thee blossom, and of its fragrance thy life has been enriched. All men get not this scent, know not the greatness and sweetness that life may hold. Sung-Chow, thou wast blessed beyond thy understanding. Love entered thy heart and cast its rosy light throughout thy soul.

“ Old man, to thee a great truth has been shown. Go thou and preach to men. Tell thou the sad, the weary, the hard-hearted and bitter, all who strive and long for the things of earth, to hearken to the words thou bearest. Tell all that in the heart of every man the Joss has placed a tiny seed. The wise find it and nurture it. But tell thou the foolish and the wise, the vain and the broken, the men of pure desire and of evil course, that there lies in all the world, in all the desires of mind and body, in all the strivings of men’s souls, but one immortal breath. All else fades, withers, passes away ; but this gives to the weak strength, to the sad hope, to all men courage and the breath of life. Go thou and bear this message.”

The deep tones ceased, melted away, were lost, and only waves of incense stirred in the dim temple.

And Sung-Chow stretched his arms before him and broke from his sleep, and heard far down the street the watchman strike the early hour of dawn.

III. AH-SING, THE CAMEL COOLIE.

On his camel sprawls Ah-Sing, — AhSing, the camel coolie. Against the rough warm hump he lays his face, and drifting, shifting dreams play through his mind. He dreams of deserts blazing hot and brown to Siberia. He feels again the stinging sands that burn his eyes, stifle, choke him, and he hides his blistered face in the camel’s shaggy hair.

Swinging, swaying, he sees the ragged camels move on with fatelike, noiseless tread. He sees them in great yellow lines, as they herd at rest in the noonday sun, chewing, gazing proudly indifferent before them. At night they lie at rest, and Ah-Sing, on his back, hears the noises of the night, hears the low bells and steady tramp of camels treading through the sleeping hours. Morning comes, and on again ; early morning, sweet and green and tender. From the brown fields come fresh earthy breaths, and ever before stretch the wide green plains. On tramps the endless string, calm and indifferent to the sweetness of the land. Blue crocuses and ghosts of dandelions blow in the little breezes, hold up their heads all wet with dew. But All-Sing dangles, dozes, indifferent too, unconscious of all beauty.

Beyond the meadows, through the mountains again, and then the great wall rears its head, cresting the hills and dragging its huge weight across the land, —cutting Manchuria, Mongolia, China. Far down the valley spread the plains, brown and sere. Farther and farther still, for hundreds and yet hundreds of miles writhes the great jagged wall, with the wide, sad plains at its feet. Stretching off. far down the valley runs a footpath, trodden for centuries by these same silent yellow messengers. On they go, — on through plains, over mountains, again through green valleys; and then there creeps up, brown and hot, the blazing desert.

Ah-Sing slips from his perch and walks beside his soft, sure - stepping beast. Slowly they move on, with blazing heat above and blistering heat beneath. Hot winds, hot sands, the sun’s scorching breath, prey upon the beasts. In this heat, in the torture of its grasp, men’s minds shrivel up, thoughts burn out, the spirit gasps and dies, and the bodies of the men move on as slowly, indifferently, as the ragged beasts treading by their side. Days, weeks, months, — they know not. The sun glares up red and hot over the stretch of sands behind them. It sinks before them with an angry flush, to rise again to-morrow. Steeped in the sun, burned in it, washed in it, they become one with the beasts and the sands.

So this yellow, sunburned life drags its yellow weight across the endless plains. A fatelike, awful march ; no hope, no halt for man or beast; but on, on, over the spreading billows of biting sands, of glowing, shifting, sinking sands, with overhead the hot sky, blue and hard, and blazing in the midst of it the scorching eye that burns and blisters with its sight.

Ah-Sing dangles from his seat, limp and blistered, no longer dreaming, in his mind a blank, great nothing. Sands slip by him, under him ; all around they stretch. A fearful heat, breathless and dry, closes upon the desert. In agony the camels stumble on, beat at the dense hot wall. Desperately the coolies hide their faces in the hot, swaying hunches before them ; but through their stupor there beats a wave of consciousness. A shudder brings them to a knowledge of a something awful. Through the sunsteeped, sun-bleached minds there cuts a keener stab. They are awake to what ?

Into the coarse camel hair they dig their fists ; tighter they press to the living things beneath them; they look not to one another; words they have not. In the presence of this heat they dare not breathe. Convulsively they cling to the stumbling beasts ; and in low, dry sobs the anguish of body breaks forth. Between the two, the brute and the man, there strikes a flash of mutual pain and torment. An instant, and down the camel line there breaks the brutes’ shrill, soullike cry. In it they voice their all, — the pent-up spirit of the wretched yellow beasts, burdened and tortured for life. In it comes a question for the shrinking wretches lying on their humps. The bitter sounds fall on the parched, tense air, and die out.

Far and away comes a gasp, a hot, vicious pant. Again it comes, — a breath of fire that touches and is gone. The great line halts as one. A blank, dead moment; in it the bosom of the desert heaves, and a breath rolls toward the waiting line. With broken moans the creatures bend their knees and wait the coming of the storm. Another scorching breath, — a timeless wait.

Far to the east it starts ; across the sands it whirls in circling hoops that form at last a wall. On it curls swiftly, silently ; with a hot, fierce lurch it falls upon the crouching backs, stinging with fangs of fire, pelting, blinding, the gasping, panting creatures ; with its dry lash whipping out the lives of men and beasts. Faster, thicker, hotter, fall the sands, crushing and burying with a merciless weight, — an ocean of burning fire, pouring wrath and strength upon these wretches as it hurls its mad force across the desert. The billows toss and heave, and break at last, to sweep on, — on for other prey.

On — and gone. And behind is left a great dead stillness.

Elizabeth Washburn.