by Emily Hahn
There followed a bewildering experience for Eling; a period of photographing and interviews with the press, and meetings held in her own house, and more speech making on her part than she had anticipated in her wildest nightmares. Mayling would not be gainsaid; her big sister was going to do her share in the public eye at last. They had many discussions during which Madame Chiang kept battering at the wall of shyness that Madame Kung had built up in the past years, and Madame Sun earnestly seconded her in urging Eling to come out of her hermitage. Their counsels triumphed when during a meeting of Hongkong’s leading women Madame Kung was elected Chairman of the Friends of the Wounded Association. Some of the people there lifted their eyebrows when they realized that it was Chingling, Madame Sun, who proposed this choice — “as there is nobody more eminently fitted for the post.” The radical newspapers left the item out of their accounts of the affair.
Before the sisters left and after Madame Chiang had been pronounced cured, they did an amazing thing — they appeared together in the Hongkong Hotel and dined there. The action was amazing for two reasons; first because none of the three ever did appear in such places, and second because they had not been seen all together in ten years. One evening, it is true, Madame Kung had ventured into the great world when her younger brother T.L. came to see her and insisted upon it.
“It’s ridiculous, the way you live,” he scolded her. “You may as well be in a convent. You’re living in one of the biggest cities in the East and you cower at home as if you were a prisoner. Why shouldn’t you come out sometimes and look at people? England’s at war now too, but everyone goes out just the same. Why, look at the King and Queen!”
Madame Kung explained her reasons — people gossip so; it wasn’t seemly; she was afraid . . . . “Nonsense,” said T.L. masterfully; “Tomorrow night I want you to get dressed up and I’ll take you to the Hongkong Hotel for dinner. Now, don’t forget!”
Eling did not forget. As a matter of fact she was very much thrilled.
She looked forward eagerly if guiltily to the bright lights, the pretty clothes, the music and the young people. For a long time she had known nothing of that sort of life except from her children, and their social activities had been limited to private parties. It was wrong, Eling felt, to want to hear music and to see nice clothes at such a time, but she did. She was glad to go, though she still protested when T.L. called for her.
In a closed limousine they drove solemnly, richly, to the Hongkong Hotel. T.L. hurried her through the lobby to the lift. They were carried past the “Grips” where everyone was dancing, past the higher floors, up to the dining hall on the roof, which T.L. had hired for the evening, and there in solitary grandeur his carefully selected party, all of people Eling saw all the time, dined solemnly and richly. Not a soul entered that dining room except the waiters. Afterwards, they went home.
This time it was all changed. The Soong sisters sat in the Grips, their backs to one of the walls, and watched all the Hongkong elite, the British taipans and officers, the nice English girls and a few Chinese millionaires and their wives, eat and drink and dance. Word went around quickly and in a few moments the dance floor looked something like the crowd at Wimbledon as couples danced past the long table, their heads turning as if they had owls’ necks, staring as hard as British courtesy allowed. It was undeniable; the Soong sisters were there, all together — Madame Kung quietly splendid, Madame Chiang glowing with new-found health, Madame Sun in black, her hair glossy, her eyes amused.
“I’ll believe two of them are there,” protested a newspaperman, “but I won’t believe that’s Madame Sun. She would never, never be with the other two — and in this outpost of Empire!”
“It’s Finland,” said another man emphatically. “You mark my words, it’s Finland. She must be completely disgusted with Russia now, and this is a reaction — it’s all Finland.”
“No it isn’t,” said the first suddenly. “I know what it is. It’s Wang Chiang-wei.”
They turned and stared again at the wall table, at three Chinese ladies who sat quietly eating their dinners just as if they were not Symbols.
It was April first, 1940, when the three sisters slipped out of Hongkong and flew up to Chungking in the famous “D. C. 3,” the China National Aviation Company’s prize plane. The bustling scene at Kai Tak airport was viewed by very few people, and the machine was hastily loaded. There was oxygen for Madame Kung, and in the luggage of each of the three was a pair of slacks — Madame Chiang had carried the day. Later, although Eling and Chingling were persuaded to wear these garments, they insisted upon huddling themselves in long coats. Only Mayling appears at full length, in the photographs without a coat, unashamed of her attire.
Secrecy shrouded their departure, but their arrival was greeted with a blare of publicity. It was the first time in Chungking for either of the elder sisters, and for Chingling it was the first time in years that she had visited any stamping ground of the National government. She went to live in the Kung house, on the top floor of what had been the war lord’s concubines’ dwelling. (Later a Japanese bomb sheared off half of this house with miraculous neatness.)
There was such a fever of social activity to welcome the ladies that a rule was made whereby none of them could accept the invitation of any private person. Only Associations and Committees were permitted to entertain them. Madame Chiang introduced her guests at meetings, at parties, at receptions; she was obviously delighted to have her sisters with her, quite aside from the political significance of their visit. The photographs show her beaming with a simple pride that is touching: for some reason we are always pleased when public figures prove to have private feelings.
The sisters traveled about the beleaguered city visiting schools, hospitals, exhibits; they went to Chengtu; movies were made of them inspecting dugouts and orphanages; records were taken of their speeches. They were worked hard. Madame Sun, who does not like public speaking, made many addresses. Madame Kung, who still feared she could not speak to meetings, disclosed an undeniably real talent for this form of expression. The Chungking residents had been keyed up to a pitch of heroic boredom impossible to describe to anyone who has not lived under war conditions, and they were avid observers of the behavior of the Soong Sisters. They stared, and the Soong sisters stared back.
Both newcomers were stirred to their depths by the sight of what had been accomplished. No reports or statistics however impressive can convey the effect of Chungking itself at first sight; the stubborn cheerful busyness of the people and the hundred makeshifts and improvements. Chingling confessed that she had never seen manifestations of better spirit among the countrypeople. Eling was particularly pleased with an exhibit of machinery and arms made from the remnants of Japanese bombs and planes at the Oberlin-Shensi Memorial School, Dr Kung’s favorite project and the organization for which she had worked when she was a bride. Transplanted to Chengtu, they were all there, teachers and students.
The sisters were overworked, they were rushed, they were bewildered by quick journeys, welcome celebrations, sightseeing tours of schools, and speeches, speeches, speeches, but the overwhelming impression of hope and vigor carried them through the ordeal. After their departure from Hongkong the papers all carried the story of their presence in Szechwan, and since it was the beginning of the bombing season they came in for special attention from the Japanese. Routed out of their beds on moonlight nights they crept down dugout steps and spent hours discussing the situation by candlelight.
“I don’t think I ever appreciated those women properly until I saw them on that Chengtu trip,” a foreign correspondent said later. “We know what it’s like, traveling in China and putting up at local inns and being bitten by bed bugs and chivvied by airplanes, but you wouldn’t expect Madame Kung, for example, to take very kindly to it. She looks as if she would be more at home in a nice safe city house. She belongs in a nice safe city house . . . . But she’s tough. They’re all tough. They turned up smiling in the middle of an air
raid in Chengtu after a most trying trip, and they were the best sports imaginable. They spoke as well as if there’d been no trouble. A raid in Chengtu is no fun for the best of us.”
Chengtu is probably one of the most easily bombed open towns in the world. Built on a flat plain, there is no possible way to dig caves for the population, and the first alarm is a signal for the whole town to make for the countryside. They go out in rickshas, barrows and chairs; they crowd on trucks or walk, carrying their belongings and their babies. When they have gone several miles they scatter in the fields, among the old graves, and wait until the planes have left their loads, or, as the Chinese language has it, have laid their eggs. Then they troop back again to take stock of the damage.
The Soong party had undergone three alarms during the two-day journey to Chengtu, and another alarm overtook them just as they approached the city. A flood of humanity met the car caravan and they were enveloped in a counterprocession of hurrying people. They sat there, waiting for the flood to diminish, watching China as it streamed past — the peasants, the coolies, the merchants, the babies, plodding patiently and without panic into the fields.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Appraisal
Comparisons may be odious, but they are necessary in writing about the Soong sisters. During their sojourn in the glare of Chungking footlights the ladies were observed and compared constantly, of course. Those among the women working for them who had schoolgirl “crushes” on one or another would quarrel and grow heated as they claimed superior beauty or virtue for each of their idols, and a typical photograph shows the long-suffering sisters sitting on a lawn drinking tea, surrounded by a dense crowd of standing admirers who could only stare and beam down at them, too shy to say a word.
Of the three, Madame Kung has probably the most spontaneous and kindly manner — the sort of manner which is known in America as “human.” Madame Chiang is more intense in her moments of communication, and Madame Sun is often overwhelmed by shyness. Like Madame Chiang, Eling’s photographs do not do justice to her face, which is most attractive because of its nobility, vividness and coloring. Her eyes express her wit and the keen, sympathetic interest she takes in her surroundings. Though she is short, like most Chinese women, her fine figure and dignified walk always give a first impression of height. One must know her well to see that she has her moments of childlike pleasure in small things — an escape from routine, a victory in some good-natured battle of words.
She has had children; the other two have not. There is, therefore, a hint of authority and added ease in her manner when she visits the war orphanages; she seems to take charge of the entire party, and the children recognize her seniority.
A most characteristic anecdote of her centers about a side street in Hongkong at night, when Madame Kung from the recesses of her limousine watched the crowd walking past, under the blazing lights of shop windows. She said suddenly in a startlingly angry tone, “Look at that man!”
A Chinese dressed in a long gown walked by the car, a baby in his arms. The child lay stretched out, wrapped in too many clothes, its face turned up to the invisible sky.
“Carrying them like that, so that their poor little eyes stare straight into the lights and are weakened,” continued Madame. “Men will do it, every time. Men!”
She sighed for all the masculine stupidity in the world that she will never be able to conquer.
Madame Sun gives the impression of austerity and a self-control won through years of practice. Her personality is all in low tones — quiet clothes, a house stark in its simplicity, a deep reserve. When she does appear in public and makes a speech one feels that she has had to steel herself for the effort. Yet her voice when it comes out is strong and forceful, and so are her words. She can be downright, even violent, when occasion demands; when she is stirred to indignation, for example.
She is almost a legend with China’s young radicals. A few of them know her and have the privilege of calling on her in the cool, underfurnished Kowloon house, where they drink tea and discuss painting, poetry and the principles of Dr Sun. Their faces glow when they speak of her. There is probably as much jealousy and heart burning among Madame Sun’s adherents as there is in Madame Chiang’s circle, though the Russian philosophy frowns upon this sort of personality idolizing.
In the first days of the sisters’ Chungking visit, the Generalissimo and Madame Chiang in honor of Mesdames Kung and Sun gave a lawn party to which all the leading women of Chungking, Chinese and foreign, were invited. It was a strenuous affair for everybody, but particularly for Madame Sun, who was mobbed by a special crowd of eager young students and women with Communist sympathies. Most of them had never seen Chingling and were overjoyed at this unexpected opportunity. They brandished autograph albums and cameras; they pushed so-closely about her chair that she could not breathe; they hid her from sight as if they had been a swarm of locusts. Shyness and a sense of duty battled for right of way in her face. Suddenly, as if she could bear it no longer, she broke from her adorers and ran like a young girl into the house.
Madame Chiang’s beauty is unusual because of her eyes. They are truly enormous, the long outer corners extending to the edge of her cheekbones. Her famous chic is not the result of effort, but is a natural quality: Mayling looks smart in anything she wears, and is usually indifferent to her clothes.
“This dress?” she will say to an admirer. “I think it belonged to my niece Rosamonde. Yes, this is the one. I said in Hongkong that I liked it and she gave it to me.”
She has tremendous vitality, but it is the expression of a grave, almost anxious earnestness, and during her spells of bad health she always fears that she will lose this energy, with the same unhappy foreboding that haunts the writer who thinks he has lost his will to work. She realizes it is her greatest gift, and she has dedicated it to her job. At forty she has not lost the student’s capacity to seek the truth in all matters, and she never doubts the existence of that one truth. The schoolmate who said that Mayling “kept up an awful thinking about everything” described her perfectly. Sometimes in her eager concentration she is like a good little girl learning her lessons, but lately she has developed a shrewd, amused cynicism that has matured her and given her a greater understanding of the ways of statesmen.
Oddly enough, considering the work Fate has given her to do, Soong Mayling is of a reflective nature and was cut out to be a scholar rather than an active go-getter. Her real passion is for the art of translation. She spends much of her rare leisure reading-ancient Chinese history, and can forget everything in the fascination of putting some of these anecdotes into English. Both languages attract her and she is always trying to reconcile them. She loves to tell these stories, and she does it with great vivacity and charm: her husband would rather listen to her recount an anecdote, though he has read it a thousand times, than read a new one. Her eyes, her gestures, her absorption in what she is saying, her genuine and naive desire to draw a moral precept from the story no matter how trivial it may seem — the result is bewitching. Charlie Soong must have had the same talent for narrative. There is a teacher’s personality just as there is an actor’s or a politician’s, and it is this quality that Mayling possesses.
It is an amusing truth that in the Generalissimo’s recent speeches, in which he follows the time-honored custom of retelling the deeds of heroes, he quotes more and more from the lives of great Westerners, whereas the Americanized Mayling in her anecdotes is falling further and further under the spell of the ancient Chinese.
I remember her most vividly during an air raid, when I shared the shelter of the Chiang dugout with a few of her attendants. We sat at the mouth of the cave, watching the Japanese planes fly over the military airfield and drop their eggs. Madame Chiang was impatient with the necessity of staying under cover — there is nothing more boring, save unremitting fear — but every few minutes the dugout telephone rang and the Generalissimo called up from town to make sure that his wife was staying in the shelter like a go
od girl. He knew that she would be tempted to desert the damp cave and return to the house, and he wasn’t risking it.
While we waited and listened to the drone of the planes Madame Chiang looked over the draft of Resurgam, which she was getting ready for the press, and discussed the proper word for this or that idea. The appearance of these articles in the local Chinese press had made a great stir among the officials they criticized, and Madame Chiang was still stirred up by this excitement and perhaps slyly amused.
It was a clear, hot day. In spite of the explosions, the ringing telephone, and the possibility of machine gunning as the planes swept low, there was an atmosphere of quiet in that dugout which emanated from Soong Mayling herself. She has always been brave: recently she has found a new strength that is akin to spiritual peace, and her placid demeanor, even in a country of placid people, made a refreshing little island of that air-raid shelter.
The All Clear sounded and we were released. Pine trees and flower bushes surrounded the stone steps that we climbed to the house. Madame Chiang was thoughtful, and I wondered about her thoughts. Was she busy meditating revenge on the Japanese? Did she have a feeling of personal hatred for those venomous little silver insects that had just winged away toward Hankow?
Suddenly she asked, “Tell me, what is your idea of happiness?”
I didn’t know. Hers, she said, was a life of uninterrupted work at reading, studying and writing . . . .
The telephone shrilled as we entered the house, and there was an immense heap of papers waiting on her desk.
