Chapter 71

A Kansu vista near Lanchow, where the hills are no longer terraced, but where towns are numerous and much alike

This method of grinding up red peppers and the like is wide-spread in China. Both through and wheel are of solid iron

Oil is floated down the Yellow River to Lanchow in whole ox-hides that quiver at a touch as if they were alive

The Yellow River at Lanchow, with a water-wheel and the American bridge which is the only one that crosses it in the west

The dinner given in our honor by the “copper”-making Tuchun of Kansu was in most points a repetition of that in Sian-fu. This time, in addition to the invitations on red cards, there was sent around a list of the guests, written in Chinese, of course, on a long sheet of similar color, which we were expected to sign in Chinese after our names. If one is not able to come—or perhaps if he finds some of the other guests not to his liking—he makes an appropriate mark in lieu of signing. When the hour for the dinner approached, messengers came to remind us to come; perhaps I should say towarnus not to be late or absent, for this was plainly a custom of viceregal days which still survived out here in the far west. In those days a visit to this same yamen was an event to cable home about, quite different from dropping in to see a military governor who from the Chinese point of view was extremely “democratic.” The man who hoped to live to boast of having been received by a viceroy got into his best dress about the middle of the night and appeared at the yamen toward four in the morning, when he might possibly be admitted to the semi-imperial presence within an hour or two, since viceroys more or less followed the custom in audiences of the court at Peking; or he might have the pleasure of waiting most of the day, and perhaps of coming back again next morning to see another sunrise. If, when at last he was received, he was of high enough rank to be asked to take a chair or its viceregal equivalent, he sat gingerly on the extreme edge of it, like one who knows how reprehensible it is to dare to draw breath in so sacred a presence. But those same old viceroys knew how to rule the Chinese, and their modern successors seem to come most nearly succeeding at the same task when they adopt viceregal methods, for all their up-to-date uniforms in place of flowing Ch’ing dynasty costumes. Then, there was an exact unbroken line of responsibility all the way from the viceroy clear down to the village elder, and things that were ordered done usually occurred, and vice versa. But we all know what a long row there is to hoe between autocracy and anything approaching real democracy.

Long lines of soldiers presented arms as we passed through the various compounds of the yamen in the wake of our visiting-cards, held high aloft as usual. At length there came the period of innumerable waist-hinged bows, attended by the difficulty, now so familiar in China, as to whether hats or caps should be lifted or left undisturbed. For by Chinese custom it is bad form to uncover the head before guests or hosts, even indoors, while the European style is not only quite the opposite but is here and there followed by Chinese who consider themselves progressive, though one can never be sure when or where such alien manners, perhaps including the unsanitary hand-shake, will break out. After the preliminary formalities in the every-day guest-room, we streamed away through the compound of the bugling wapiti and across the now barren garden to a huge room on the edge of the city wall andoverlooking the Yellow River. Not only was this open and cold but its walls were mainly of glass, which did not improve the temperature. It was not easy to find our places by the red place-cards bearing merely our Chinese names, but when we did we found that America had been signally honored. For on the Tuchun’s left, which is nearest the heart in Chinese custom, sat the major, while a Mongol prince who ruled a tribe in the Kokonor region of Tibet had been relegated to his less important right hand. However, the prince, who was also a lama, and according to some uncertain authorities a “Living Buddha,” cast far into the shade not only the major, but the Tuchun himself, this time in a black gown instead of uniform, to say nothing of the civil governor—in practice merely an underling of the military ruler of any Chinese province and as pale a moon as a vice-president in the shadow of the White House. For his Highness, or whatever familiar title he answered to, wore a brilliant saffron jacket embroidered with dragons, a cap of similar color with a large pink tourmaline—perhaps, for I am no expert in colored stones—a purple skirt, and dull-red Mongol boots! With him had come a princely suite, one member of which, swarthy as a mulatto and with a curiously eagle-like eye, stood between his master and the Tuchun and acted as interpreter. But the prince was anything but talkative, possibly because he was not garrulous by temperament, perhaps because he shared the common dislike of hearing his remarks relayed in a foreign tongue, but most likely for the reason that his attention was fully taken up with the intricacies of what purported to be a foreign meal. The strange eating-tools were evidently quite new to him; but he had the wisdom of common sense as well as the unexcitability of Mongol princes, and by watching the Tuchun at one end of the table and the civil governor at the other he came off very well indeed. How deep was his wisdom is shown by the fact that whenever he was in doubt he merely “passed.” Perhaps he really did not smoke or drink, as he stated with a word and a gesture, but there could hardly have been any religious motives for refusing half the countless courses, beginning with sharks’ fins—no simple luxury this far from the coast—and ending with macaroons, which he plainly avoided as another unknown, and therefore possibly dangerous, form of food.

How the soldier servants, to whom a boy picked up from the dump-heap brought things from the kitchen, handled not only slices of bread but the eating end of forks and spoons without any apparent consciousness of the absence of manicurists in Lanchow need not of course be mentioned. Besides the lama-prince there were Protestantmissionaries, a Catholic or two, ordinary Buddhists, Taoists, and Confucianists, probably fetishists pure and simple as well as mere pagans, and certainly there were Mohammedans among the soldiers swarming within and about the room, though not, of course, among the guests. Conversation never rose above the gossip plane, and glancing along the table I realized that one possible reason for this, besides custom at semi-public Tuchuns’ dinners, was the fact that there were eight different mother-tongues among the bare score of men about the festive board.

Night had fallen before the servants had cut up the fruit and distributed it piecemeal, and had snatched away from any unwary guest the cigar laid before him a moment before, slipping it deftly up their sleeves, and we were at length in a position to bid Lanchow an official farewell. The final scene was not without its picturesqueness. When the last polite controversy on precedent at the many yamen gateways and the final bows had subsided, the blue embroidered night turned to a whirlpool of big oval Chinese lanterns, as the chair-bearers gathered in the outer courtyard prepared to take up their masters and trot. Each chair was tilted forward until its owner had doubled himself into it, his cushions were adjusted by ostensibly loving hands, and the curtain which formed the front wall closed upon him. The chief of his carriers shouted out orders that were repeated as well as executed by the others, and each group shouldered its burden in turn and jogged away into the night, its big paper lanterns swinging gently to and fro. Even the Belgian representative of the salt administration was attended by soldiers as well as his four chair-bearers, for high officials cannot overlook the matter of “face” in China merely because they chance to be foreigners. The Mongol lama-prince, like one who deeply scorned any such effeminate form of locomotion, mounted the red-saddled horse led up by one of his rather poorly mounted escort, which clattered away over the flagstones behind him, bugles blowing and scattered groups of soldiers presenting arms, while we simple Americans wandered out and away on foot.

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