for coal to the Western Hills, marching steadily, solemnly, tirelessly, as they marched in the days of Marco Polo, and a thousand years before the days of Marco Polo, and all round the course, crowding every point of vantage were a large concourse of Chinese, people of the working and middle classes, clad mostly in blue, the women with bound feet from the farms near by, the men and the children very likely from further afield, but all unchanging as the camels themselves, eagerly watching the foreigners' sports. They are not allowed to come into the enclosure, every mafoo and attendant wears a special badge, and even Chinese of the better class may come only by special invitation of some member. These interested folk, who have no friends among the foreigners may not even go into the enclosure, where the “Tommies” and bluejackets, men from England and America, France, Japan, and all the countries of the earth crowded in the gay sunshine making high holiday. Nevertheless the Orientals surrounded the course. They got upon the mounds of earth that are at the back and looked from that vantage-point not only at the races but at the foreign devils at their tiffin and afternoon tea. Their own refreshment was provided by hawkers selling cakes and sweetmeats, just outside the forbidden ground, and Peking carts and donkeys waited round to take them back to their homes. There were even beggars there, beggars with long, unkempt hair, wrapped in a single garment of sackcloth, ragged, unwashed, unkempt, the typical beggars of China, for no one knows better than they when money is being lightly handled, and as the bright sunny day, the gorgeous spring day of Northern China drew slowly to a close doubtless even they, whom every man's hand was against, gathered in a few stray cash. I hope they did. Such a very little makes so much difference in China.
The sun sank slowly to the west in the translucent sky, the ponies in the saddling paddock were walked slowly up and down in the long shadows of the ash-trees, and the country was beautiful with the soft regret of the dying day as we walked back through the fields of kaoliang to the railway station, we, the handful of people who represented the power and majesty of the Western world. The mighty walls of an older civilisation frowned down upon the train—this thing of yesterday—the last rays of the setting sun lighted up all the glory of the red and gold of the Chien Men watch-tower and we were in the Legation Quarter once more, with armed sentries at the gates, and the American soldier upon the wall sounding the bugle call for the changing guard.
I come from a country where every little township considers a race-course as necessary as a cemetery. I have been to many many race-meetings, but this one in Peking, where the men of the land are so barred out that no one of Chinese descent may belong to the Club or even ride a race, stands out as unique. It has a place in my mind by itself. It was so expressive of the attitude of the Powers who watch over China. Peking, the Peking of the Legations had been amusing herself. The National Assembly was in an uproar, the Premier was openly accused of murder, the Loan was in anything but a satisfactory state, everyone feared that the North and the South would be at each other's throats before the month was out, the air was full of rumours of wars, but the English-speaking community love racing, the other nations, from their Ministers downwards, had fallen into line, and Peking, foreign Peking, did itself well.
And I wondered, I wondered much what the Chinese thought of it all. It is very, very difficult, so men tell me who have lived in China long, and speak the language well, to get at the bottom of the Chinese mind, to know what they really do think of us. The Chinese gentleman is so courteous that as far as possible he always expresses the opinion he thinks you would like to hear, and the Chinese woman, even if she be of the better classes, with very few exceptions is unlearned and ignorant as a child, indeed she is worse than a child of the Western nations, for the child is at least allowed to ask questions and learn, while all her charm is supposed to depend upon her subservience and her ignorance. As I stood on the race-course that day, and many a time as I sat in the lounge of the Wagons Lits Hotel—the European hotel of the Legation Quarter—where all tourists visiting Peking come, where the nations of the world foregather, and East meets West as never before perhaps in the world's history have they met, I have wondered very much indeed what the East, the portly middle-aged Chinaman with flowing silken robes and long queue thinks of us and our manners and customs. He was accompanied perhaps by a friend, or perhaps by a lady in high collar and trousers with a little son, the crown of the child's head shaven, and the remaining hair done in a halo of little plaits tied up with string, yellow, red, or blue, and he watched gravely either the dancing, or the conversation, or the conjurer, or whatever other amusement the “Wagons Lits” had for the time being set up. Again and again have I watched him, but I could never even make a guess at what he thought. Probably it was anything but complimentary.
"The men dressed for dinner,” said a Chinese once, describing an evening he had spent among foreigners; “then the order was given and the women stripped,” that is took off their wraps when the music began, only everything is “ordered” in China, “and each man seized a woman in his arms. He pushed her forward, he pulled her back,” graphic illustrations were given, “he whirled round and round and she had no will of her own. And it was all done to horrible music.”
Everything is in the point of view, and that is how, at least one Chinese gentleman saw a waltz. I used to wonder what he said of the musical comedy that from time to time is presented by a wandering company in the dining-room of the Wagons Lits Hotel. They displayed upon a tiny crowded stage, for the edification of Chinese and foreigners alike, for the room was crowded with Chinese both of the old and of the new order, such a picture of morals as Europeans take as a matter of course. We know well enough that such scenes as are depicted in “The Girl in the Taxi” are merely the figments of an exuberant imagination, and are not the daily habits of any class either in London or Paris. But what do the Chinese think? All things are necessary and good, I suppose, but some are difficult to explain. Thirteen years ago the Boxer tragedy, now the musical comedy full of indecencies scarcely veiled.
Truth to tell, it was a very interesting thing for a new-comer like me to sit in that hotel watching the people, and listening to the various opinions so freely given by all and sundry. From all parts of the world people come there, tourists, soldiers, sailors, business men, philanthropists'—men who were working for the good of China, and men who were ready to exploit her. And then the opinions as to the safety of the Europeans in China that were expressed! Here, in the security of the Legation Quarter, I collected those opinions as I wanted to go into the interior, and I was by no means anxious to risk my life.
To arrive at any decision was very difficult. In the Treaty Ports there may be some unanimity, but once outside it seemed that every man had his own particular opinion of China and the Chinese, and all these opinions differed widely.
“Safe,” said a man who had fought through the Boxer trouble; “safer far than London. They had to pay then, and they won't forget, you can take your oath of that.”
“Like living on a volcano,” said another. “No, I shall never forget the Boxer trouble. That's the kind of thing that is graved on your mind with hot irons. Do it again? Of course they'll do it again. A docile people, I grant you, but they're very fiends when they're aroused. They're emotional, you know, the French of the Far East, and when they let themselves go———” He paused, and I realised that he had seen them let themselves go, and no words could describe the horror of it. “Would I let my wife and children live in one of the hu t'ungs of Peking? Would I? How would they get away when the trouble commenced?”
The chances are they couldn't get away. The hu t'ungs of Peking are narrow alley-ways running out from the main thoroughfares, and the houses there are built, Chinese fashion, round courtyards and behind blank walls, hidden away in a nest of other buildings, and the difficulty of getting out and back to the armed Legation Quarter, when a mob were out bent on killing, would be enormous.
“A
