Unfamiliar China

FUKIEN PROVINCE, FOOCHOW, CHINA
MY DEAR --,
The last time I wrote you I was looking from my window across the city to the wonderful hills of this province of Fukien — such an unscrupulous province as it is, like Mr. James’s heroine, ‘awfully nice but somewhat wicked,’ with its opium traffic, which brought in last year over a million dollars in taxes alone. When I last wrote, I found it hard to express the magic: I am glad I caught the beauty then: it is rather hard to recapture, now that daily visits in the city show a reality that did not emerge at a distance. When Mr. Andrews was here, he said that ‘no matter how long one stops in China, one remains in a state of mental suspense, unable to decide which is the filthiest city of the Republic.’ I think the title might be granted Foochow.
When I ride home in the afternoon, I see, in front of the narrow entrances, dainty trays furnished forth with pigs’ heads, crabs, beans, cabbage, tea, rice, and wine — sustenance for those wandering spirits, who, having left this world unfostered, return with sinister design. The households who care for them in this way escape their wrath — a feast at the threshold placates them. Great boatloads of ‘idol paper’ come into port every fortnight. Few families are too poor to have a goodly supply, and my road home in the early dusk is illumined all the way by these tiny bonfires. When ‘idol paper’ is too costly, joss sticks are lighted and stuck, cross-fashion, before the gate. Every door has a twelve-inch board standing upright, over which one must step in order to enter. This to hinder the spirits in that assault which is always imminent! To-night sounds of a barbaric tom-tom greeted me: when I came up with the noise, I found a high altar covered with red cloth embroidered with gold griffins, all brilliantly lighted with candles; in front, a priest, in gorgeous red robes, chanting a Buddhist ritual. Beside him was the individual who was being ‘treated’ for obsession, beating a drum, and waving his hands in frantic protest at the imaginary demons.
Yesterday, apparently, the Fukienese were having a provincial shampoo. Up and down the street, on both sides, were the barbers, with their little tubs of hot water; I saw no soap, but no matter. When I commented on suddenly seeing so many, I learned that shampoos must be given only on ‘favorable days’: otherwise, after death, the mother of the family must drink all the water used. Rather a severe penalty, is n’t it?
What passes for cruelty — though I am sure it is not — accompanies all this superstition. Monday, as I came across the bridge that connects with the city outside the gates, I saw a dead coolie exposed, face upward, to the sun. He had lain there, poor lad, at least a day or so. Throngs were crossing the bridge: there was no protest or outcry or investigation — just a little side-step to pass by. This is not because of callousness, but a dead body is an area on which spirits are having a frenzied orgy, and even to notice them may call down disaster. To meddle is to expose yourself to a bad attack of IT, which is contagious.
I have among my students a very charming young Chinese girl; she and her brother were on the river recently; the brother was jostled off the little deck; the river was full of craft, as it always is — one of the busiest highways. A hundred poles could have been reached to him, but no one would take the hazard of giving offense to the river god, and the boy was drowned.
My roommate, Miss L—— of Huanang College, has just returned, eight or nine hours late. Her boatman lost his balance and slipped into the river, with the same fate. It was with great difficulty that she could get the men in the river to tow her sampan back to shore, where she hunted out the little widow and the many, many children, who fortunately were left to burn the joss sticks and put out the chow for that wounded spirit. None of this is cruelty — those who have been here long deny that: it is an attempt to shield the group from the wrath of a defeated god.
If thee wants to study comparative religion, do not buy a book, buy a ticket. The laboratory is right here on the open street, with no charge for equipment.

China New Year
MY DEAR ——,
The great season is here — this year on the eighth of February. The celebration is to last a fortnight — from the first to the fifteenth of the new moon. And oh, we are gay! The boulevards have nothing on us. Such scrubbing, such scraping, such sweeping, you have never seen. And faith, they need it! On this day, and this day only, dares one scrape all that soot from the bottom of the rice-pot. Everyone is gay. The babies on the street all cry, ‘Bing on! Bing on!’ No ‘foreign devil’ now: it’s China New Year! And oh, the girls look winsome in their embroidered silks — this year the fashion is for bright colors and small designs.
It ’s great fun in The Street to-night. Everybody must gather in enough shekels to pay his debts — or he will ‘lose face.’ No move in China but brings back that dread echo. There are shrill cries of lowered prices, and a low, alluring voice at my elbow says proudly, ‘Missy, come talkee price.’ It is pretty — ‘A Ming,’ he says.
‘No, Chen Lung,’ say I.
‘Well, then, Chen Lung,’ he admits grudgingly.
‘How much?’ I can now say in Chinese.
‘You offer,’ he replies in English, and bows low. And I know it would all be very simple if he and I could serve on the Committee on International Relationships.

The morning of the Odyssey
MY DEAR ——,
Yesterday my good hostess said, ‘Tomorrow be ready to go up-river. We will take the houseboat. Be ready to start at five.’ She called back, ‘Better not wear your fur coat — and no money in your purse — and the little wrist watch, better leave that behind!’
All this I took rather as a joke, until I heard the Chinese ‘boy’ asking very earnestly for ‘’Melican flag,’ without which we dare not go.
In the hall stands a row of large baskets, just the shape of the Ali Baba jars, only done in wicker. Into them are going crockery, canned goods, eggs, marmalade, bread, a plentiful supply of tea and coffee and cocoa, a little fresh meat — and other things. In three of the largest are rugs and blankets and mattresses. The ‘dang-boys’ (burdenbearers) are here bright and early. Every one has across his shoulder a bamboo pole, from each end of which is suspended one of the Ali Baba jars; for all our stuff must be transported to the river by men, such a tiling as a truck or wagon being unknown.
But do not think we are off yet. Of course, some Ali Baba jars are heavier than other Ali Baba jars; hence, mutiny. Such clatter, such expletives, such anathema — all accompanied by threatening gestures. Our hostess knows what to do. The burdens are too heavy for five men: three more must be requisitioned and she will pay the extra fee. I assure thee those three conspirators came right straight up out of the ground. Also they disappeared mysteriously before we reached the bottom of the hill; but we paid to the original five the fee for eight.
Off they go, good-naturedly, carrying our burdens for miles, without a murmur, over muddy roads, along the stepping-stones that cross the rice paddies; sometimes wading the cold streams, which are a bit turbulent now.

Later
We are now three days on the river, — the little Ing-Tai (River of Eternal Happiness). I dare say that

I know it leads right into Paradise, this little river. Does n’t thee want me to take a whole letter for it — the bandit and all? it’s worth it.

INK HOK, CHINA
May Day
MY DEAR ——,
‘ There is a river, the streams whereof .. . make glad the city of’ — Foochow; and this moment I am on it, cuddled under the wicker hood of my little sampan, glad for a while to be part of this strange river life. Men, women, and children live and die on the river, never having set foot on land. The river is as busy as Broadway, with sampans for motors, bamboo poles for horns, and brown, half-nude boatmen, each of whom must be his own accelerator.
We have pushed upstream into a quiet spot, and hoped to pass the rapids before sundown; but that is given over until to-morrow — like most enterprises in China. But never mind! The ubiquitous ‘boy,’ with easy Chinese ingenuity, has set up a little charcoal stove on our tiny deck: there is rice and there is bacon in the skillet. We purchase, for a ‘little dime’ (two coppers less than ‘big dime’), a bagful of honeysweet Amoy oranges, and there you are! Life is incredibly simple on a little river — a Little River of Eternal Happiness. The little river so christened itself a few æons ago — and it ’s no misnomer! It ’s quite dusk now, and I’m writing with my little burglar light, there being no fireflies (I wonder why).

Later
Very unexpectedly and suddenly I got a bit of illumination. I, too, like the people in the prophecy, ‘ have seen a great light’ — a bunch of burning faggots. They are tied to a narrow punt, just a few poles’ length from my deck, and they serve as footlights for this bit of drama. In one end of the punt stands a tall, brown human figure, motionless, and in the soft light of the burning rushes looking like a Tibetan god. In front of him I see clearly a little tub. Perched along the side of the punt are large birds, each with rather a close metal ring about his fair neck. Just as I am wondering if I have happened upon a Chinese circus, one of the birds rises with the faintest flutter, and silently drops into the water. The others follow as noiselessly. One by one they come back, each with a gleaming fish in its mouth. They waddle up the floor of the punt, in solemn lock step; each, in turn, deposits his fish in the wooden tub and receives as cumsha (pourboire) a tiny minnow, a delicacy which he can swallow, despite the hard necklace. Down they go for further prey, and I realize with glee that I am watching the famous old cormorant fishing. Presently the miniature tub is full, the faggots are extinguished, and the punt moves shoreward with its load. Izaak Walton died too soon. This is fishing de luxe. Nothing could be easier, surer, less expensive. The cormorants are cheap, easily trained, are exquisite divers, and there is no bother for tackle or rod or bait. This is another illustration of the Chinaman’s philosophy, Why do the barking when you have a yellow dog? Shall I bring back a flock and introduce them on the Penobscot?

Still on the river
MY dear ——,
It’s an odd experience living with only human motors. We came this morning to the rapids. The boatman and his wife are partners, and they have reluctantly been making preparation for this event for over half an hour. The little woman boatman is seventy-four, she tells us, by Chinese count, which is seventy-three by ours. (Thee knows the Chinese count the day of birth as the second birthday, making thee a present of that prenatal year.) She is as lithe as a panther and can make her body, which is of almost unbelievable slenderness, do anything, in any way, at any time. She has children and children’s children. Of her progeny, like her agility, apparently there is no end. But she is not thinking of the little sons, now: she is thinking only of the rapids, with the concentration which all the Chinese — high and low — have to wondrous degree. While her husband fastens a crossbar to our little prow, she has rolled her trousers high above her knees and made them taut with a few skillful twists, girding her loins, literally, for what we perceive is to be a great physical effort. They both splash lightly, bare-limbed, into the water, making not the slightest sign, though the water is icy cold. A cable is tied to the crossbar, and the man wades ashore, giving one end of it to the shore puller.
We are keen to know the purpose of the crossbar, and presently we find out. The man returns, and both he and the bronze lady, with foreheads and hands pressed hard against the crossbar, wade upstream, thus augmenting with their pushing the pulling of the shoreman. They put up a good fight against the current, but it is too strong for them. They lose their footing. The little sampan skids perceptibly, then, to their great mortification, fatally, and we find ourselves slipping rapidly downstream, though the shoreman has dropped on his knees, pulling for dear life on the cable. There is much billingsgate from the shore. They are thoroughly angry, but persistent. They must make the rapids, or they will ‘lose face’ on the river; so patiently they turn and begin again. The little old lady has wrapped some bamboo around her forehead, so that she can stand the pressure of the crossbar, but otherwise she shows no sign of exhaustion.
Oh, but you should see us this time! Up we go, steadily, bravely, firmly, right up through the foaming water.
The little old lady scrambles back into the boat, agile as a cat, and drops on deck, where she lies for an hour thoroughly relaxed. Not a sign of triumph! ‘How old are you?’ she asks. ‘How many children?’

Along the river
MY DEAR ——,
We have stopped at one of the toy villages along the way, and such excitement as we have caused! ‘Hi, the flat feet! The flat feet! Come see the flat feet!’ was the cry that preceded us; and long before we reached the bottom of the street, every man, woman, and child was out. The Chinaman gambles on everything under high heaven; and as we went over the hill, we heard them betting on whether C—— N——, who is extremely tall and well-built, was man or woman. ‘The little one,’ they said, ‘she is a woman, we know. But the other one, the big one, with the large flat feet — no.’ Surely ‘ big money ’ was lost and won that day, for when we returned to fill our baskets with oranges, we revealed our identity.
These little villages seem to be pure democracies. There is a headman, chosen because of power for leadership, but control is informal and coöperative. There are, I fancy, few problems, which means, not ideal conditions, but low standards. Rice and bamboo and oranges are easily come by; clothing is reduced to a minimum; the alfresco life is a healthy one; and, except for the temporary torture inflicted upon the girls in binding the feet, life, I should judge by their happy faces, is rather a painless affair. Demons are of course the bête noire; but, after all, the monastery is just over the hill, and if worse comes to worst, the lama will ‘knowhow.’
Also, there are effective taboos. One provident villager has painted on his outside wall a valiant steed, solid blue and life-size. A tiger also is a good taboo-breaker: a phœnix will serve; best of all, a bat, which practically renders you immune. Then always there is the lama, who, in return for a bit of chow, will insert a sacred formula in the prayer-cylinder for you; the wind and a touch of the hand do the rest.
Buddhism came to China with a powerful equipment of deities, charms, and methods of exorcism, an equipment which completely coalesced with a people who had no knowledge of secondary causes. It is not always easy for a religion which is amulet-less, and whose genius is suffering, to make headway. Of course, Christianity has the eternal advantage of a Personality.
When we came back to the little landing-place, we found our ‘boy’ looking uneasy, and a Chinese soldier was ensconced cosily in the sampan. We know only too well that soldiery and brigandage are synonyms here, and we share the boy’s very evident discomfort. The soldier is told courteously that we are sorry, but we must be going. He smiles and says he will go with us. We again are sorry, but we have no room. No matter —he requires none. A hint from the ‘boy,’ and we display the flag. Reluctantly he goes, while we wonder how many more of him there are.

DEAR ——,
Our little amah has drooped a bit lately. On Second Day morning, when she came to look out the ‘ broken stockings ’ for mending, there was the same gracious solicitude, but something was wrong. It was much more wrong than we knew. The doctor said at once, ‘Hospital’ — possibly an operation. The Chinese have an ancient, and in some respects a very good, medical system, but they know nothing of surgery; so perforce we took her to the foreign hospital. She hated it, with all its swept-up foreign ways. ‘No can chow,’ she said pitifully. ‘No can sleep. No can see two dear little boys. Want to go home.’ So they brought her home. Such a mean little place from our standpoint, with No. 1 wife in absolute control, low rooms, with no windows, and the messiest courtyard in China. The two little boys were the redeeming feature. She had barely greeted them when she slipped away. We are heartbroken. That was three days back, and ever since, day and night, without a moment’s intermission, the tom-toms have been going. To look over there is to behold a ‘tumult, and many weeping and wailing greatly.’ I quite understand why, when Jesus ‘saw the fluteplayers and the crowd’ in the home of his little friend, he said: ‘Give place.’ Yesterday and to-day there were processions of white-robed men and women to a spot about a quarter of a mile from the courtyard, where great piles of spirit money have been expended for use in the other world, delivery being by fire.
To-day was the day of burial, which, in this part of China, means that the casket is placed in an open field, near by, where it stays — a constant reminder. That is sacred ground. The exact spot is dictated by the magician. All day cymbals, flutes, and tambourines have gone on with endless repetition of the same weird melody. The service was held in the open courtyard. I could not understand the amorphous mutterings of the Buddhist priest. But, even to my untrained ears, it sounded like strange Chinese. I am told that, when Buddhism moved over into China, the ritual was translated phonetically, with the result that it now consists of a perfectly meaningless string of incantations, a kind of sacred ene, mene, mine, mo. While the priest chanted, each relative came forward and kow-towed eight times to him and eight times to the little body in the casket, now covered with a brilliant red winding-sheet, with a hole cut for the face.
We were glad when it was over, and the little cavalcade passed through the gate, followed by the same white-robed procession, only now they were waving great bunches of burning rushes. I loitered a moment: the silence was so welcome after three days’ noise. A priest returned and carefully swept, with burning faggots, every inch of the floor and the corners and walls — smoking out the evil spirits which love to haunt the places where the dead have lain.
As Chinese ceremonies go, these were very simple obsequies; but, even so, a mou of precious land had to be mortgaged to pay the bills. The priests certainly earn their fee if time and lungpower have market value. They chant constantly. The Buddhist and Taoist priests have rather a good thing of it financially, as the Confucianists have no burial rites, and the former are requisitioned by all, no matter what their faith.
Immortality is not in the realm of speculation here: it is an established fact, and most elaborate arrangements are made for the material comfort of those who have finished their course. I loitered to-day to see a funeral procession go by. Apparently the deceased was a man of means. The spirit chair, which preceded that in which the dead man lay, was of the most gorgeous old embroideries. Then came a sedan chair, a ricksha, horses, trays of food — all made of paper and life size. There were piles and piles of paper money, and, last of all, attendants carrying cleverly devised paper ladies, also life-size. These are milord’s concubines.
A bit crass, it seems to us. But there is an infinitely lovely side to it all. The Chinaman has his ‘cloud of witnesses.’ ‘ Neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,’ can separate him from his kin. Whether here or there, they are an integral and formative part of his life.

MY DEAR ——, I marvel constantly at how near the spirit world is to them, and am wondering why that nearness could not be utilized by Christianity. Is it a thoughtform which could be utilized instead of eradicated? The missionaries say not, and I presume they know. But I’ve been thinking of the pagan customs which Paul requisitioned for the service of Christianity. I dined recently with a very interesting Chinese family. The girls are students at Yen Cheng College; the father is a mining engineer who had his training abroad. They are all perfectly familiar with the New Testament and other Christian literature, and are lured by the personality of the Master, and frankly say they are trying to rearrange their lives in accordance with his principles. They say as frankly that they will not accept Christianity — ancestor-worship is the barrier. The mother says rather archly, with pride in her English idiom, ‘We think best to take no chance.’

FOOCHOW, CHINA
China New Year
MY DEAR ——,
Perhaps thee thinks the dragon on thy sumptuous silk panel is a national fiction. But no! He’s a reality. I ’ve seen him. He’s a gorgeous creature — fifty feet of lithe brilliancy, two great jaws that snap, two ironic red lips, and one big tongue that spits fire. I miss the ten great horns and the one little horn, but never mind. One must miss something — even in Cathay! I assure thee prophecy has been fulfilled. I have seen the ‘fourth beast,’ and he is ‘ dreadful and terrible and strong exceedingly’ and ‘diverse from all the beasts that were before it.’ I have a feeling now that anything may happen. When I next write, the sun may be darkened and the moon may drip blood and the stars may be falling.
It was on this fashion. One of my young friends here chances to be from an old, conservative ‘front’ family. She ’s a true daughter of the gentry and the granddaughter of the head of the Confucian worship of this province. She stopped me after class. Would I care to come, she asked modestly, ‘to the courtyard to-night for one of the old family festivals, the Manœuvring of the Dragon? The dragon comes seldom now,’ she says wistfully; ‘grandfather says it does not belong to the Republic.’
‘I will indeed come,’ say I; and at nine I am there. At once there is tea and the inevitable watermelon seeds. Then the family come to greet ‘the foreign lady.’ I knew they were living in the old style, but fancy my surprise to find a little family of ninety — the eldest seventy-six, the youngest two. Think of birthdays every day in the year! I suddenly know the power of China. It’s this ancient unit, the family. Only it’s more than a family: it ’s a fortress! And it’s majestic; it’s impregnable; it’s the only thing left in my little world for which I really save the word immutable.
I see only the feminine members of the family and the children. And oh, such children! I wish thee could see them — well-groomed, grave, reserved, and as the sands of the sea for multitude. The elder women are appareled in silks of wondrous texture and color. From the spotless rim of their skirts peep out the ‘golden lilies,’ encased in tiny, flowered-satin envelopes (it were blasphemy to call them shoes). I quite get the old emperor’s point of view as to their loveliness: there’s something extremely fetching about them.
Presently, in response to a summons of firecrackers, we go into the dim ancestral courtyard, and take our places primly on tall benches, our backs against the high wall. The courtyard is lovely under the silent stars. Everywhere there is the dignity, the courtesy, the poetry of an elder time. Never did I feel so shockingly new! But also I feel important. It’s as if I were summoned to assist at the Last Great Assize. For all this while there is writhing in the air above me a dreadful creature, more than fifty feet long, in hot pursuit of a rose-colored pearl. Our friend of the Atlantic is right, ‘The devil has his miracles as well as the saints.’ I shrink in terror when the convolutions of the beast bring his great head in my direction. He gets frantically involved, chiefly with his own tail, and there is a great struggle; but I early perceive that the victory is not to be to the strong. Always the rose-colored pearl escapes, and finally it drifts out over the door of the big gate. A long swift sweep of the head brings the dragon within reach of one of the children, who feeds him generous mouthfuls of firecrackers, whereupon he spits fire and venom for a bad quarter of an hour. When his rage is utterly spent, he drops ignominiously into the courtyard.
As we crawl down from our perches C—— N—— whispers, ‘We’ve one on Alice.’ Yes, I think, and on Daniel and Ezekiel. And then the amah brought us all jasmine tea and spaghetti (such spaghetti!) and Eight Precious Pudding (a Chinese ambrosia), and the Day of Judgment seemed less imminent.
I ’ll tell thee more of this wondrous night when I see thee: it is not easy to write, — ‘as easy as to turn a somersault in an oyster-shell,’ which is a Chinese proverb.
The student conference for Fukien Province begins to-morrow, and that means a busy fortnight. Please say to B—— M—— that I want more of the beautifully embroidered linen, but I’ve hardly the conscience to get it. It is done in dark corners of the world, by children who expend on it, in a few short years, the vision that should last a lifetime. Where the missions have started industries, the situation is different : there beautiful work is done under better conditions. I have talked with an energetic New England woman whose ideal for her own missionary activity is — A Model Industry in China; and I think she is in the way of realizing it.
P.S. One feels the lure of the Orient here, where there are ‘roses, roses, all the way,’ like Psestum. I acquired another tiny piece of lacquer to-day. It is concentrated sunshine. ‘The subtle gods of Babylon’ are all here. I keep saying

I do quite see how Westerners come ‘ to live blindly and upon the hour’ in the midst of all this age-old beauty.