A forgotten tragedy—The troops—“Lest We Forget”—The fortified wall—“No low-class Chinese”—The last thing in the way of insults—A respecter of power—Racing stables—Pekin s'amuse—Chinese gentleman on a waltz—Musical comedy—The French of the Far East—Chances of an outbreak—No wounded.

At Canton a few years since,” wrote Sir George Staunton, recording the visit of the first British Ambassador to the Emperor of China in 1798, “an accident happened which had well-nigh put a stop to our foreign trade. Evils of every kind fraught with this tendency are to be apprehended, and ought to be particularly guarded against, especially by a commercial nation. On some day by rejoicing in firing the guns of one of those vessels which navigates between the British settlements in India and Canton, but not in the employment of the East India Company, two Chinese, in a boat lying near the vessel, were accidentally killed by the gunner. The crime of murder is never pardoned in China. The Viceroy of the Province, fired with indignation at the supposed atrocity, demanded the perpetrator of the deed, or the person of him who ordered it. The event was stated in remonstrance to be purely accidental but the Viceroy, supposing it to have been done from a wicked disposition, still persisted in his demand, and to assure himself of that object, he seized one of the principal supercargoes. The other factories being alarmed, united themselves with the English as in a common cause, and seemed disposed to resist the intentions of the Viceroy who on his part arranged his troops on the banks of the river to force a compliance. It was at last deemed expedient on principles of policy, to give up the gunner with scarce a glimmering of hope that his life would be spared.”

Later on in a casual footnote he records that their worst fears had been realised, and the unfortunate gunner, given up, let us hope, not so much from motives of policy as to save the supercargo, had been done to death.

That incident, to my mind, explains the Legation Quarter of Peking to-day. Of course the Legation, in its present form, dates only from the Boxer rising, but the germ of it was there when the merchants of the assembled nations felt themselves compelled to sacrifice the careless gunner “from motives of policy.” One hundred and twenty years ago the Western nations were only a stage removed from the barbaric civilisation the Chinese had reached two or three thousand years before, but still they were moving onward, and they felt they must combine if they would trade with this rich land, and yet protect their subjects and their goods. And so they did combine, and there arose that curious state of affairs between the foreigners and the people of the land that has held for many years, that holds in no other land, and that has crystallised in the Legation Quarter of Peking.

Suppose in London all the great nations of the earth took a strip of the town, extending say from Marble Arch to Hyde Park Corner, and from Park Lane to Bond Street, held it and fortified it heavily, barring out the inhabitants, not wholly, but by certain regulations that prevented them having the upper hand. The thing is unthinkable, yet that is exactly what has happened in Peking. Against the Tartar wall, from the Chien Men to the Ha Ta Men, the nations have taken a parallelogram of ground all but a mile square, they have heavily fortified it, on three sides they have cleared a broad glacis on which no houses may be built, and they have there a body of troops with which they could overawe if not hold all the town.

No man knows exactly how many men the Japanese have, but supposing they are on a par with the other nations, there are at least two thousand five hundred men armed to the teeth and kept at the highest pitch of perfection in the Legation Quarter. Living there is like living in an armed camp. You cannot go in or out without passing forts or guns, in the streets you meet ammunition wagons, baggage wagons, Red Cross wagons, and at every turn are soldiers, soldiers of all the European nations that have any standing at all, soldiers from America, soldiers from Japan; they are doing sentry-go at the various Legations, they are drilling, they are marching, they are shooting all day long. In one corner of the British Legation they keep untouched a piece of the old shot-torn wall of 1900 and painted on it, in big black letters, is the legend, “Lest We Forget,” a reminder always, if the nations needed a reminder, of the days of 1900, of the terrible days that may be repeated any time this peace-loving nation drifts into an anti-foreign outbreak. I was going to write it is almost insulting; but it is insulting, and this armed Legation Quarter must be in truth cruelly galling to the better-class, educated Chinese. They must long to oust these arrogant men from the West and their neighbour from the East, who thus lord it over them in the very heart of their own city. Even the wall, the great Tartar wall built first by Kublai Khan, and finished by the Ming conquerors, comes under foreign domination from the Ha Ta Men to the Chien Men. The watch-tower over the Ha Ta Men is still in the hands of the Chinese, and like most things Chinese is all out of repair. The red lacquer is cracked, the gold is faded, the grass grows on the tiled roofs, in the winter dried-up and faded, in the summer lush and green, and for all the Chinese soldiers hold it, it is desolate and a thing of the past But a hundred yards or so to the west, is the German post. Always are armed men there with the eagle on their helmets, always an armed sentry marches up and down, keeping watch and ward. No great need for them to hold the Ha Ta Men, their guns dominate it, and below in the town the French hold carefully the fortified eastern side of the Legation Quarter. The centre of that strip of wall, held by the Japanese, is marked by an iron fence called, I am told, a “traverse.” There is a gate in it, and across the path to that gate, so that it may not be so easily got through, is built up a little wall of brick the height of a man. In the summertime the grass grows on it green and fresh, and all the iron bars of that fence and gate are wreathed in morning glory. The Japanese are not so much in evidence as the efficient Germans or the smart Americans, but I am told they are more than keen, and would gladly and effectually hold the whole wall would the other nations allow them. At the Chien Men, the western end of the mile-long strip of wall are the Americans, tall, lean, smart, capable men in khaki, with slouch hats turned up at the sides, clean-shaven faces and the sound in their voices that makes of their English another tongue. In the troubles of 1912, when fires were breaking out all over the city, and every foreigner fled for safety to his Legation, Uncle Sam, guarding the western end of the wall overlooking those Legations, seized the beautiful new watch-tower on the Chien Men, his soldiers established themselves there, and they hold it still. It dominates their Legation they say with reason, for their own safety they must hold it, and the Chinese acquiesce, not because they like it, but because they must. Periodically representations come in, all is quiet now, the Americans may as well give up the main gate, or rather watch-tower, for they do not hold the main gate, only the tower that overlooks it. But the answer is always the same, it overlooks their Legation, they must hold it. They have a wireless telegraph post there and a block-house, and the regulations for the sentry, couched in cold, calm, official language, are an insult to the friendly nation that gives them hospitality, or would be so, if that nation had not shown itself incapable of controlling the passions of its own aroused people. The sentry clad in khaki in summer, in blue in winter, marching up and down by the watch-tower, magnificent in its gorgeous Eastern decorations of blue, and green, and red, and barbaric gold, must report at once anything unusual taking place in the gate below, any large gathering of Chinese, any unusual commotion, but above all upon that wall, that wall that belongs to them and is the wall of their capital city, he must not allow, without a permit, any Chinese. The wording of the order runs, “No low-class Chinese,” but the definition of low class is left to the discretion of the soldier, and he is not likely to risk a reproof from those in authority over him by being too lax. With my own eyes have I seen a Chinese, well-dressed in European clothes, turned back by the sentry from the ramp when he would have walked upon the wall. He looked surprised, he was with European friends, the order could not apply to him, but the sentry was firm. He had his orders, “No Chinese,” and without a special permit he must see them carried out. It seemed cruel, and unnecessarily humiliating, but on the central ramp are still the places where the Americans, seeking some material for a barricade, fighting to save themselves from a ghastly death, tore out the bricks from the side of the great wall. Other nations beside Britain, write in their actions, if not on their walls: “Lest We Forget!” The lower-class Chinese probably do not mind the prohibition. It is considered bad manners for a Chinaman to walk upon the wall, because he thereby overlooks the private houses below, but in these days of the New Republic possibly good manners are not so much considered as formerly, and since the Chinese have never been allowed upon the wall they probably do not realise that thirteen miles of it are free to them, if they care to go there. Some few I know do, because I have met there men gathering the dried vegetation for fuel, and I have seen one or two beggars, long-haired, filthy men in the frowsiest of rags, but the first have probably got permission from the soldiers, and the latter, seeing foreigners there, have most likely been tempted by the hope of what to them is a lavish dole, and, finding no harm happen, have come again. I may be wrong, of course, but I hardly think death can have much terror for the Chinese beggar, life must hold so very little for him. Those who, having dared their own portion of the wall with impunity, find the foreign mile still a forbidden place to them, probably put it in the same category as the Forbidden City, and never realise that it is the outlander, the outer barbarian, and not their own Government that shuts them off.

But the holding of that wall by an armed force, that dominates both the Chinese and the Tartar Cities, seems to me the very greatest thing in the way of insults. Some day when the Chinese are a united nation, powerful as they ought to be, they will awake to that insult, and the first thing they will do will be to clear their wall from foreign interference. Meanwhile, as I sit in a courtyard of a temple of the Western Hills, drinking in the sparkling air of September, looking at the lovely blue sky peeping through the dark green branches of the temple pines, as I sit and write this book, I think gratefully of that loose-limbed, lissom, athletic, young American soldier who, with rifle across his shoulder, is doing sentry-go upon the wall. The German is there too, the stiff, well-drilled, military German, but my heart goes out to the man who is nearer akin, and whose speech is not unlike that of the people of my own land. It seems to me I am safe here, alone among the Chinese, because of those soldiers. There are those who will say I am wrong, that the Chinese are always courteous, and that they like me because of the money I put into their pockets. And that is true enough too. I have found the very rickshaw coolie a finished, courteous gentleman in his manner towards me, and I have received many little acts of kindness which could but come from a kindly heart, with no thought of profit behind it; but still, deep down at the bottom of my heart, I know that the Chinese, more than any man on earth perhaps, respects power, and the Legation Quarter, and the holding of that wall, are an outward manifestation of power that reaches far and keeps me safe here in my mountain temple. The gods here by my side are dead, who fears or respects the gods, Spanish chestnuts are stored beside their altars, but the foreign soldiers on the wall are a fact there is no getting over. It impresses those in authority, and the fiat goes forth, permeating through all classes, “The foreigner is not to be touched under any circumstances whatever.”

On this wall come the foreign community to exercise and promenade in the cool of the evening in summer, or to enjoy the sunshine at midday in winter, and here all the soldiers and sailors of the various nationalities foregather. There is no other place in all Peking where one can walk with comfort, for the Chinese as a nation, have no idea of the joy of exercise. They have put it out of the power of their women to move save with difficulty, and that a man should take any pleasure in violent exercise seems to them absurd. To walk when he can ride in a rickshaw, or mount a donkey, would argue something wrong in his mental outlook, so it happens that, in all the great city, there are only the streets of the Legation Quarter and the wall where walking exercise can be indulged in. The streets of the Quarter are the streets of an uninteresting, commonplace town, but the wall overlooking the two cities is quite another matter. Here the part of the foreign community that does not ride takes its exercise, and foregathers with its kind.

One thing is certain, people keep horses here in Peking who could not dream of such a luxury in England. True, they are only ponies fourteen hands high, but a great deal of fun can be got out of pony racing. And racing-stables are a feature of the Quarter. Not that they are in the Quarter. On the plain, about five miles to the west of the city, lies the little race-course, and dotted about within easy distance of this excellent training-ground are the various training-stables for the ponies. The China pony comes from Mongolia, where close watch and ward is kept over him, and neither mares nor stallions are exported.

“If I could only get hold of a mare,” sighs the young racing man, but he sighs in vain. Meanwhile he can indulge in the sport of kings cheaply.

“I've joined another fellow in a racing-stable,” said a man to me, soon after my arrival in Peking, and I looked upon him with something of the awe and respect one gives to great wealth. I had not thought he was so well off. He saw my mistake and laughed.

“The preliminary expenses are only thirty pounds,” he went on, “and I don't intend they shall be very heavy. We can have good sport at a moderate cost.” Of course moderate cost is an elastic term, depending on the purse of the speaker, but in this case I think it meant that men of very ordinary means, poor exiles who would live in a six-roomed flat with a couple of maidservants in England, might have a good time without straining those means unduly.

A race-meeting in Peking has peculiarities all its own. Of course it is only the men from the West who would think of a race-meeting. The Chinese, except at the theatre, do not amuse themselves in crowds.

The Spring Meeting took place early in May, and the description of it should come a little later in my book, but it seems to fall naturally into the story of the doings of the Legation Quarter. Arrangements were made with the French railway running to Hankow to stop close to the course, and put the race-going crowd down there. There was no other means of getting there, except by riding; for driving in a country where every inch of ground, save a narrow and rough track, is given over to the needs of agriculture, is out of the question. That spring race-meeting the day was ideal. There was the blue sky overhead, the brilliant sunshine, a gentle breeze to temper it, the young kaoliang was springing, lush and green, in the fields, and the ash-trees that shelter the race-course were one delicate tender green. A delicious day. Could the heart of man desire more? Apparently the foreign residents of Peking did not desire more, for they turned out, men, women, and children. And then I saw what a handful of people are these foreigners who live in the capital of China and endeavour to direct her destinies, for save and except the missionary element, most of the other foreigners were there, from his Britannic Majesty's representative to the last little boy who had joined a hong as junior clerk at a hundred dollars a month, and felt that the cares of Empire were on his shoulders. They were mostly British, of course, the foreign trade of China—long may it be so—is mostly in British hands; and there were representatives of every other great nation, the Ministers of France, Germany, Russia, of Italy, Austria, Spain, Belgium, Holland, and Japan, everyone but America, for America was busy recognising the Chinese Republic, and the other nations were smiling, and wondering why the nation that prides itself on being the champion of freedom for the people, was being the first to recognise what is, virtually, a despotic rule.

The little course, a mile round, is marked out with leafy ash-trees, the grand-stand was charming with lilac bloom purple and white, and banksia roses, fragrant as tender memories. It was shaded by p'engs—mats—raised high on scaffolding, so that pleasant shade might not interfere with the cool breeze, and here were the women of the community, the women of well-to-do people, gay in dainty toilets from London and Paris; the men were in light summer suits, helmets and straw hats, for summer was almost upon us. Tiffin, the luncheon of the East, was set in the rooms behind, decorated with miniature flags of all nations, made in Japan, and wreathed with artificial flowers, though there was a wealth of natural blossom around the stand outside. There is a steward's room and the weighing-room in one tiny building with a curved roof of artistic Chinese design, and all the ponies are walked about and saddled and mounted where every interested spectator can see them. And every spectator on that sunny May day was interested, for the horses, the sturdy Chinese ponies, were, and always are, owned and ridden by the men of the company, men whom everybody knows intimately. For these Peking race-meetings are only amateur, and though, occasionally, a special pony may change hands at two thousand dollars—two hundred pounds—the majority are bought and sold under two hundred dollars—twenty pounds—and yet their owners have much joy and pride in them.

Surely it is unique, a race-meeting where all the civilised nations of the earth meet and fraternise in simple, friendly fashion, taking a common pleasure in small things.

“They're off!” Mostly the exclamation was in English, but a Russian-owned horse, ridden by a Cossack rider, won one race, and was led proudly up to the weighing-room by a fair lady of his own people, and was cordially applauded, for the winner was always applauded, no matter what his nationality.

The horses, coming out to parade, were each led by their own mafoo, who managed to look horsey in spite of a shaven head, long queue, and pronounced Chinese features. Up and down they led the ponies, up and down, and when at last the precious charges must be resigned, a score of them squatted down just where they could get the best view of the race, and doubtless each man put up a little prayer to the god he most affected, that the pony that carried his money might come in first.

When we were not watching the saddling, or the parade, or the race, or the weighing-in, we were listening to a Chinese band, Sir Robert Bredon's band, with a Chinese conductor, playing selections from all the modern Western music. It might have been—where in the world might it not have been? Nowhere but in Peking in the heart of China surely, for there, just beyond the limit of the course, were long strings of camels bound 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 Debt Commission spells another anti-foreign outbreak, and we're within an ace of a Debt Commission,” said another man thoughtfully; “and if there is a row and things look like going against us, I keep one cartridge in my revolver for myself.” It does not seem much when I write it down, such things have I heard carelessly said many a time before, but when I, a foreigner and a solitary woman, was contemplating a trip up-country, they had a somewhat sinister sound.

On the other hand again and again have I heard men scout all idea of danger, men who have been up and down the country for years. And yet but yesterday, the day before I write these words, a man looked at his pretty young wife, she was sweetly pretty, and vowed vehemently, “I would not leave my wife and child alone for a night in our house just outside the Quarter for anything on earth. If anything did happen—and it might———” and he dropped his voice. There are some things that will not bear thinking about, and he had seen the looting of Nanking and the unfortunates who had died when they took the Woosung Forts. “We went to look after the wounded,” said he, “and there weren't any wounded. The savage Northern soldiery had seen to that.” And those whom they mutilated were their own people! What would they do to a foreigner in the event of an anti-foreign outbreak?

“Are you afraid?” I asked a man who certainly lived far enough away in the city. He looked at me curiously, as if he were going to say there was nothing to be afraid of, and then he changed his mind.

“Perhaps I am when I think of it,” said he; “but then you see, I don't think of it.”

And that is the average attitude, the necessary attitude, because no man can perpetually brood over the dangers that might assail him. Certain precautions he takes to safeguard himself, here are the nations armed to the teeth in the heart of a friendly country, and for the rest Quien sabe?

And I talked with all men, and while I was making preparations to go into the interior, had the good-fortune to see a quaint and curious pageant that took me back to Biblical days and made me remember how Vashti the Queen was cast down, and the beautiful Esther found favour in the sight of her lord, and how another tragic Hebrew Queen, going down to posterity with a name unjustly smirched and soiled, had once painted her face and tired her head, and looking out of the window had defied to the death her unfaithful servant. “Had Zimri peace who slew his master?”