CHAPTER XVIIIIN BANDIT-RIDDEN HONAN
One of our military attachés at Peking purposed to see China’s Far West before the cycle of duties called him home to a regiment, and he consented to have company. At least if it chanced to please the bandits who were just then using that means to coerce the incoherent Government to add us to their growing collection of foreign hostages, there would be some advantage in companionship.
The major had business in Honan before I could leave Peking, and took the newly captured cook with him, leaving the “boy,” Chang, who maltreated considerable English and was to be our most important link with the outside world, to wait with me for the next biweekly express. Below the junction for Shansi, where daylight overtook us, the landscape was still as flat as about Peking; but there were more trees, bushy as the mango, though thinner of foliage, many trees, indeed, for China. Though it was already late October, the leaves had hardly begun to turn, and that brilliant sunshine and utter cloudlessness which is one of the greatest charms of dry, denuded North China so many days each year made it seem still almost midsummer. The broad, fenceless fields swarmed with people, mainly engaged, as far as a passing glimpse could tell, in picking cotton and threshing peanuts. The cotton was in some places so thin that even the frugal Chinese apparently did not find it worth gathering, while the best of it, on plants scarcely knee-high, was nothing to exhibit at a fair. Women gone cotton-picking had the advantage of trousers, but this was more than offset by the bound feet on which they hobbled from bush to bush. In contrast to those long two-bushel bags the negroes drag behind them through the fertile cotton-fields of our South, a kind of newsboy’s sack at the waist, or a pocketed apron, seemed to be quite large enough here.
It was hard to distinguish the many heaps of peanuts from the still more numerous graves. With enough of this baseball and circus delicacy within one sweep of the eye to satisfy a ravenous city on the Fourth of July, there came back to mind the touching story of the fond Americanmother who sent her dear son in China a box of peanuts for Christmas, so that he might for a little while be reminded of home. Even small children were helping to pull them, and to pile the nuts in grave-like mounds of careless cone shape. Of the graves themselves there was literally no end, until the landscape for long stretches seemed to grow nothing else. Yet the land was a veritable market-garden, so great is the individual care of Chinese fields in all their processes. Here and there, in place of the far more common tilling by hand, was a plow, drawn by two or three mules; but naturally you cannot plow to advantage if you must dodge grandfather’s grave every trip across a short field, after that great-grandfather’s, and then that of the father before him, back to more than remote generations. If only the old gentlemen would consent to lie in a row, or even in a companionable cluster, or to be laid away in a real graveyard where the little cones of earth might perhaps be kept green even in China, instead of being rare, rain-gashed heaps of dried mud as hallowed as a pile of peanuts!
Yet sometimes there is a hint of reverence, rather than of mere superstition, about a collection of half a dozen of these untended mounds drifting through the centuries with no other evidence of care than the slender shade of a single tree bent over them, like some faithful old servant still respectfully waiting to do their bidding. A suggestion of this comes now and then even to the disapproving foreigner, aghast at the wicked wastefulness of China’s burial methods; and certainly the peasant himself, the only one after all whom it greatly concerns, develops no spirit of criticism, no thought of revolt. A plow being in most cases inconvenient among his ancestral mounds, he digs away about them by hand year after year, generation after generation, as those same ancestors did century after century. Naked to the waist even in these late autumn days, his body burned to the hue of old polished mahogany, he never disturbs them, and rarely if ever mends them.
There were still reminders of the summer’s crops,—sweet potatoes, onions, lettuce, cabbages, carrots; but there was little if any evidence of the house-highkaoliangthat stretches for unbroken miles across more northern China, all the north, indeed, of this province of Chihli. Country-women hobbling slowly and painfully about on their crippled feet were everywhere, even the most ugly, weather-beaten, and work-worn of them boasting this fancied form of beauty. Blindfolded donkeys and mules marched patiently round and round hither and yon across the landscape, some about ancient well-curbs, lifting by greatwooden wheels water for the irrigation ditches that are so widely needed in this deforested, rain-stingy land, others rotating big stone rollers for the hulling or grinding of wheat. Brick-kilns, which the Chinese seal up for long periods with their contents, stood forth like rudely chiseled monuments or artificial hillocks. The earth was worn away around everything, walls, trees, roadsides, monuments, those great slabs of stone, top-heavy with carved dragons, that may be seen anywhere; for great portions of China are half-desert, dry as dust, of a moistureless brown soil ready to wash or blow away at the least provocation, and slavishly dependent upon irrigation. Chinese farming methods, too, increase this erosion. Everywhere men were cutting off the top layer of soil and screening the earth into many little mounds that stretched in long rows across the sunken fields. Later they “spread this between the wheat,” if I understood Chang’s laborious explanation; that is, they use it as a kind of fertilizer, sometimes mixed with the droppings of animals gleaned along the roads, as well as for the building of the many little low field-dikes.
Barely over the boundary of Honan, where it thrusts itself in a point that recalls the “gerrymandering” of the West into the two provinces bounding it on the north, is Changte, burial-place of Yuan Shih-kai. A tomb evidently rivaling those of the most powerful emperors, certainly larger and more sumptuous than that of Mencius not far east of here in Shantung, rises among great trees within easy sight from the train. But it is not covered in imperial yellow, for the new dynasty that the occupant hoped to found, and which, if numerous examples in Chinese history still mean anything, would have been the more natural development, failed to materialize, less because of wide-spread republican sentiment, one suspects, than for lack of tact, among the virtues of political sagacity, in the make-up of what might have been the founder.
Yuan Shih-kai is the father, so to speak, of the curse of swarming soldiers that now overrun China. For it was he who first saw in Korea, when he was a mere officer of the Manchus, the first Western-style soldiers, and who coaxed the Government to start what has become the present military misfortune of China. There were “soldiers” everywhere now—in China one must use the word with a grain of salt, for to put a simple country youth or a mere coolie into a faded gray cotton uniform and hand him something resembling a weapon does not make a real warrior, as the sight of rows of men standing at “present arms”and at the same time staring back over their shoulders at a strolling foreigner suggested. These artless, slouch-shouldered fellows lounged with fixed bayonets along the graveled platform of every station; they packed the trains to overflowing; they were drilling in companies and battalions, once or twice, it seemed, in whole regiments, on bare, dusty fields along the way. Had the half of them been genuine soldiers there should not have been a bandit within a month’s march in any direction.
At Chengchow next morning the head of a man, his long hair carefully wrapped about it, as if that were much more precious than what had been his neck, lay a yard from his trunk, hands and feet rudely tied with ropes, out on the bare space before the station. Perhaps he had really deserved this frequent, casual Chinese fate, and was not the simple coolie substituted for influential or unattainable criminals which his appearance somehow suggested. The curious strolled over to see him, but the eating-stalls just in front lost none of their custom or their cheerfulness; by noon the body was gone, and dogs had licked up the great patch of blood that had spread between head and trunk.
The major had already gone westward, and it was not until months later that I visited Kaifeng, capital of Honan, long after the “Christian General” had been transferred from there to Peking. Fu Hsi lived there a little matter of 4775 years ago and not only ruled the Chinese but, if we are to believe all we hear, taught them to fish with nets—the Yellow River being but a supernatural stone’s throw away—to rear domestic animals, to use the lute and lyre, in a way, one suspects, that has not changed since, and spent the leisure time left him in instituting laws of marriage and inventing a system of writing by using pictures as symbols. No doubt he played some antediluvian species of golf and lectured on the necessity of large families also, but early history is often careless in preserving “human interest” details. What we do know is that Kaifeng was the capital of China under the Sung dynasty, from 960A.D.until the court was captured by the Kins nearly two centuries later, a brother of the emperor escaping to Nanking and setting himself up in his place, and remained a kind of capital of the Kins until they were finally overthrown by their fellow-Tartars, the Mongols. Since then the city has apparently been content with its provincial status.
Its wall encloses a mammoth space, much greater than that of Taiyüan, for instance, but with great open spaces within it. Lakes before the “dragon throne” in the center of the enclosure, though in the West they would more probably be called ponds, give the site mildly a suggestion of Peking. In a far corner thetieh-tah, or “iron pagoda,”is worth coming to see, though the only iron visible about it is the Buddhas in relief peering out of each opening up its thirteen stories. Of a beautiful glazed color of reddish brown with imperial yellow specking it, one might also call it the world’s largest porcelain. The keeper insisted that it was two thousand years old, but I fear tradition uncorrected by the printed page had deceived him as to the date of the Buddhist invasion of China, to which her pagodas are due.
There was a busy, almost a pleasant atmosphere about Kaifeng, with its moderately wide streets, and rickshaw-men almost as fast as those of Peking; though squeaking wheelbarrows for all manner of freight, with women on tiny feet sometimes straining in front of them, were numerous. Feng Yü-hsiang, China’s far-famed Methodist, cleaned up Kaifeng in the Christian sense during the six months he was ruler of Honan there. He drove out prostitutes; the extraordinary sight of soldiers sprinkling chloride of lime with their own fair hands wherever it was needed was but one of many such during his days. The only scandal that seemed to hover about his memory was an inordinate love for ice-cream, which reduced him to the point of sending a soldier for his share on those Sundays when he could not dine with the American missionaries in person. But Feng was evidently too good a Tuchun of Honan to suit his master Wu Pei-fu. The fellow who has taken his place has merely the outward honors of the office; Wu gives him his orders in everything of importance, and has his own auditors on the spot. Meanwhile the figurehead enjoys his opium, his singsong-girls, and his prestige, while the city slips back into the habits of which Feng attempted to cure it, and soldiers now and then run amuck in it. A thousand mere boys drill a month or two in compounds recently walled for them in the very outskirt where the missionaries built in the hope of an un-Chinese bit of quiet now and then, and pass on into the ever-swelling armies to make room for as many of their fellows. Bugles blare seven days a week long before the June hour of dawn, and all day long the recruits do their worst to sing scraps of Western music as they march.
The chief interest in Kaifeng to the traveler in quest of the unusual, however, is its Jews. The Chinese call them “Yu-t’ai,” which undoubtedly is derived from “Judea,” though whether by word of mouth or merely geographically is not clear. They came many generations ago, just when or why neither their neighbors nor they themselves seem to know. To-day they consist of “seven names and eight families”; that is, there are eight Jewish families who have between them seven familynames, every one, as I have mentioned before, being compelled by circumstances over which he has no control to adopt one of the hundred and some Chinese surnames when he settles in China. Some doubt whether there are a hundred individuals left; the present head of the clan put the number at “one or two hundred.” They seem to have lost every vestige of Jewish identity, except the name they are all known by, which persistently survives. All those I saw looked less Jewish than do some of the Chinese; certainly their features would not definitely distinguish them from their neighbors, though the “head Jew” boasts that several persons have come to take his photograph “because he has such a big nose.” I ran this man Chao to earth for a somewhat similar purpose, and found him and his son keeping a little shop in a slovenly part of town, stripped to the waist and otherwise conducting themselves quite like Chinese a bit above the coolie class. Their home behind had not an un-Chinese hint about it—unless it was a large photograph of the father and son with a very Russian Jew from New York between them, which occupied a conspicuous place. But they were if anything more friendly, more bubbling over with excitement at a visit from a foreigner and the awe this inspired among their crowding neighbors, than pure Chinese of their class would have been. The merry little father, it seems, has twice been in jail charged with murder, if that really means anything concerning a man’s character in China; the fact that he had gotten out again suggested that there could scarcely have been much evidence against him, for the Jews of Kaifeng are not wealthy.
They intermarry with the Chinese, and some have even taken up Chinese idol-worship; the rite most insisted upon by orthodox Jewry has not been practised for generations. Formerly they had what they called a synagogue, but about fifty years ago this was completely destroyed, and does not seem to have been kept in repair even until then. There has been no attempt to restore it, and a stone tablet that stood within it is all that is left. On this last relic is engraved a sketch of Hebrew history and the names of the patriarchs. Once it bore also the names of the principal Jewish families in Kaifeng, but these were obliterated in order to throw off the scent those who tried some decades ago to persecute them. This tablet, by the way, is now in the compound of the Kaifeng mission of the Canadian Episcopal Church. No one in Kaifeng, as far as is known, can read Hebrew, and the clan seems long ago to have lost any interest in Judaism. Several portions of Hebrew scriptures have been found on the streets for sale, evidentlyas mere curios. The chief Jew proposed one day, in a talkative mood, that he order all the Jews to become Christian and join the church of the American missionary with whom he was speaking—because he had had a quarrel with the pastor of the other church.
The father of two likely-looking Jewish lads who attend the American mission school is a silversmith and has some means, but as a group the Jews of Kaifeng have not yet developed any Chinese Rothschilds or Guggenheims; nor is the wealth of the city in their control. In other words they seem to have become completely “un-Jewed,” if the expression be allowed, which is their chief claim to interest. For the Chinese, I believe, are the only people in the world who have completely broken the racial tradition of the Jews for remaining a distinct race. The slow and patient sons of Han have blotted out the marks that have identified the sons of Abraham for thousands of years, as they have pacifically assimilated race after race that has come into close contact with them, and it should occasion no great surprise if the Jewish colony of Kaifeng were entirely lost within another generation.
Soldiers were particularly numerous on the “Lunghai” line west from Chengchow, for this led to the headquarters of China’s just then most powerful general, Wu Pei-fu. Chang and I fell to talking with some of them in the crowded third-class coach. They were all volunteers—except perhaps as hunger and its allies coerce—enlisted for three years, new soldiers drawing, in theory, six “Mex” dollars a month, old ones, for what our own call a “second hitch,” eight. But in practice none of those with whom we spoke had ever been paid more than three such dollars during a single “moon,” at least, as they put it, “in time of peace.” It would be no great wonder if some of those off now on a furlough to their homes with only that amount to their names should be cogitating some violent means of improving that penurious condition of affairs.
One might become an officer within a year, they said, if one proved to be a good soldier, particularly if one were a friend of some friend of the general, or had money to scatter in the right quarter. Company officers seemed to receive about as much as our enlisted men do, with the privilege of buying their own food and clothing; but there are, as every one who has passed a bit of time in present-day China knows, other means by which they, and to a large extent the soldiers under them, often appreciably increase their official stipend.