The Ginger Tree

by Oswald Wynd

  I had put on a simple dress with a light coat over it, my hair tucked up into a felt hat, no parasol, and I had left home feeling that I was drab enough not to be an object of interest to anyone, but standing in that market I felt that what I was wearing was ridiculous. These people, in far from their best clothes, had a kind of elegance, the men in long robes split only at the ankles, the women with three-quarter-length tunics over trousers, their heads bare, the hair simply dressed, the only jewellery in ears, no brooches or other fussy ornaments. I seemed to be all bumps in my clothing, my skirts far too long even though in Peking we have these made an inch or two off the ground so as not to sweep the dirty lanes and streets. It was as if I understood then just how weird we must look to them from their own simplicity of style, all fuss and furbelows. In China we ought to wear Chinese clothes, like some of the missionaries do in the interior, but I can imagine how the Legation dinner tables would react to that idea. Suddenly I wanted to say to these people, please look your fill, I am indeed a curiosity.

  I am probably showing the first symptoms of China Head, a disease amongst Europeans in this country which results in them being sent away from the Far East and never allowed to return. If this is my complaint Richard is going to be sadly embarrassed, and I thought just how angry he would be if he could see me in this place with a shopping basket hanging over my arm while Yao, keeping his good eye on me, tried to inspect a piece of fly-covered ox with the squinting one.

  At the de Chamonpierres’, Legation Quarter, Peking

  May 6th, 1903

  I am writing this in bed. Living here is very luxurious, my breakfast tray set with the most beautiful Limoges china, so fine I was afraid hot coffee might crack the cup. I would have preferred tea but in a French house tea is just a British joke in the middle of the afternoon. Marie swept me away from home, first with a chitty warning me that she was coming to do it, then arriving, breathless, because I was her only hope to make up the numbers at a dinner-party they were giving last night which was a difficult mix of guests and only the little Scotch, as Armand calls me, could solve things. All nonsense, of course, pure French flattery of the kind they do automatically when they have a mind to, but still very pleasant to receive. I think Marie is so lucky with Armand, and wonder if she really appreciates him? They say French men are all loose living, but I would be very surprised if Armand has any interest in any other Legation ladies. There is talk that all the Legation bachelors go to Chinese women, but this is not a matter I want to hear too much about because it makes me uneasy when I am in the company of someone I know is behaving wickedly. I find it so difficult to look at them while we are engaged in ordinary conversation, which I know is very silly of me and is something I will almost certainly grow out of soon in this life. Anyway, I cannot imagine Armand going out to Chinese women and will not consider the idea.

  I didn’t feel that my contribution to the success of the de Chamonpierre dinner-party was quite so important when I found that my task was once again to attempt to make Count Kurihama say a few words while we were at table. It was quite clear that he didn’t want to, and I didn’t score a very startling success. I said I had seen pictures of beautiful Mount Fuji and longed to see it for myself. To this he said: ‘Ah.’ I asked if he had ever climbed the famous mountain and he said: ‘No.’ I then wondered why he had not and he said: ‘Too busy become soldier.’ I am sure he speaks English like that because he thinks it is the way people expect a Japanese to speak English and suddenly, to my own complete surprise, I said this to him. For the first time, I think, he looked straight at me. Then he laughed. It was rather like getting a laugh from Yao, it changed the Count’s face completely for half a minute, no, about three seconds, making him seem almost a boy. Though he did not tell me this, Marie did afterwards, he is leaving Peking next week to return to Japan for active military duty. Marie is quite sure that in the coming war between Russia and Japan Count Kurihama is sure to distinguish himself. I don’t know why she is so obsessed with the idea of this war, which she thinks France and Britain should be preparing to join on Japan’s side against what she calls the savage bear. She has been in Japan on holiday and says it is like paradise. I have been given a novel to read set there called Madame Chrysanthème by Pierre Loti. I looked at it last night before I slept. It seems to be very French in that the heroine is a woman of doubtful virtue.

  After having been forced to endure me throughout dinner I was expecting Count Kurihama to steer well clear in the drawing-room, which made it quite a surprise when, as the gentlemen joined us, he took a firm course to a place by my side, as though he had deliberately planned to do this. He drank his coffee and sipped his brandy, sitting with a ramrod military back, and in a true Japanese silence, staring towards one of the few open fireplaces in Peking. This gave me a view of one side of his head if I wanted it, on which there was a decided cheekbone flush from the drink he had consumed. I matched his silence, aware as I did this of Marie looking at me from across the room, perhaps considering coming to my rescue and sweeping me away to another grouping. However, this was not necessary, the Count, having finished both coffee and brandy, turned his head and said in slow but still perfect English except that he could not make an ‘l’ sound, using ‘r’s for these so that the sentence came out as: ‘Prease teru me about Scotrand.’ It was quite a tall order, but I began by saying that we also had a sacred mountain called Ben Nevis which is also often snow-capped. He seemed mildly interested and asked if it was a volcano? I told him that all our volcanoes had gone to sleep some millions of years ago, for which we were very thankful, though we still had earthquakes at a place called Comrie and I had experienced one while staying in a hotel near there with my mother. The Count then said that at his home in Tokyo there is usually an earthquake every ten days or so, small ones, but that if as long as a month or two goes by with no shake people become nervous, expecting a big one. I asked what happens in a big one and was told that people get knocked off their feet and tiles come down from the roof. It all sounds rather terrifying and I asked him if the earthquakes were the result of volcanic activity but he said no, Japan was mounted on the back of a huge dragon which was subject to uneasy dreams. I think he meant this as a joke, but he didn’t laugh, so I didn’t either. Really, he is an odd man. I found myself wanting to make him smile again but was not successful.

  Marie has just left after coming in suddenly to see me just as I was thinking about getting up and making use of her civilised bathroom. She was wearing a peignoir, of apricot colour, with much lace, and sat on my bed to suggest that I should not go home today, but stay on with them until Richard gets back. I said that I expected him tomorrow, at which she looked wise and said I’d be lucky if I saw him in ten days because, as everyone in the Quarter knew well, he had not gone to Chinwangtao, only passed through it on the way to Moukden, where his mission was to report on Russian activities in Manchuria, which report would then be sent to London in the diplomatic bag. I wasn’t to be distressed that he had not told me himself for he had been under orders to tell no one. I said it was not much of a secret if the whole of the Quarter knew what he was doing, and if this was true, what about the Russians? Marie laughed and said that of course the Russians knew what he was up to, and would be waiting for him in Moukden, but since the territory is still officially Chinese there was nothing they could do to stop Richard’s activities, only watch him from the moment he got off the train. He would expect to be spied on, but that wouldn’t keep him from collecting what he needed for this report.

  Naturally all this didn’t make me too happy and I told Marie I wouldn’t stay on with them because I wanted to use the time while Richard is away to get on with doing a number of things to the house. This was a mistake because Marie immediately volunteered to come and give me her good advice, but then fortunately remembered that her social calendar for the next few days was practically bursting. I wish she did not give me the feeling that I have been ‘taken up’ by her. I am certain it is something
that rather sets the other Legation ladies against me, and that I don’t like, either for my own sake, or for Richard’s. I am not good yet at handling people and situations.

  5

  Letter from Mary Mackenzie to her mother

  157 Hutung Feng-huang, Peking, China

  May 19th, 1903

  Dearest Mama – I have some rather exciting news for you, or at least it is exciting for me! Richard was away from Peking on military business and was only just back when he came home one evening to say that the Empress Dowager Tsz’e Hsi (you pronounce that with the tip of your tongue almost against the back of your upper teeth) had sent a command to the Legations that she wished to meet a few of our younger wives. For some time now, and to help wipe out memories of the Boxer Troubles, Her Majesty has been giving tea-parties to the wives of European diplomats, but only at the higher levels, Ministers’ and First Secretaries’ wives and so on. The numbers were fixed, as though only a few foreign women could be risked in the Winter Palace at one time, and usually only half a dozen would go, this leading to some unpleasant feeling amongst the ladies who felt that the upper levels of our society were keeping the privilege to themselves. Perhaps it is that the Empress of all China, and real ruler of this country since the Emperor is a nothing, has got tired of seeing the same faces at her parties, for her new invitation, though not actually naming me, said that she understood there had been a wedding in the Quarter recently, and that she wished to see the bride, also any other ladies of about that age.

  There is a great shortage of ladies about my age! At the German Legation there is one wife of twenty-six and at the Italian another of twenty-seven, but that is all, so the friend with whom I stayed when I first came, Edith Harding, was included though she must be at least thirty-three or -four, with two sons at school in England. My French friend Marie, though really still quite young, had already contrived to get herself to one of the tea-parties, so was not eligible this time, and finally it was decided to send just the four of us instead of the usual six.

  The great day is tomorrow. Our audience is not to be held at the Winter Palace within the city walls, but at the Summer Palace some distance outside, this built by the Empress only about fifteen years ago, at immense cost, and some say using the money raised throughout the Empire to help improve the Chinese Navy. The story goes that when Sir Robert Hart, the British controller of Chinese Customs, asked Her Majesty what new ships had been built with the money raised the Empress pointed to a marble boat at the edge of an artificial lake and asked if he did not think that was a pretty warship? The Lady Tsz’e Hsi is certainly no ordinary ruler, amongst other things suspected of using poison from time to time to advance her position. Her co-regent, the former Emperor’s chief wife, died very suddenly, leaving all the power in the hands of Tsz’e Hsi and she is said to keep her own son as a virtual prisoner. There is no doubt that she was totally behind the Boxers’ plan to wipe out all the foreigners in China. I remember that when we had Catherine the Great at school in history I thought her the most ruthless woman who has ever been, but perhaps this title ought to be given to the Lady with whom I am to sip tea tomorrow (green, I should think). Not the wildest imaginings of either of us could have foreseen, when you bought that blue dress for me in Edinburgh, that it would be worn for this special occasion. If it seems too formal for teatime apparently the custom with these audiences is to dress as for the evening because Her Imperial Majesty likes to see her European guests as jewelled as possible. In this she is going to be sadly disappointed with me!

  The four of us leave the Legation Quarter in the British Minister’s carriage at two o’clock, accompanied to the Hatamen Gate by Legation guards, where our escort will become a troop of mounted Imperial Cavalry. You can imagine that I am feeling excited, this is likely to be the nearest I shall ever get to royalty in any country unless, of course, Richard is one day knighted at Buckingham Palace, though I do not feel in my bones that this is going to happen.

  May 20th

  I was so exhausted last night when I got home I could not eat a thing, much less write anything down for you, Mama, but today my memories are still very fresh and I will try my best to give you a clear picture of what happened. First, there was a slight let-down. The Legation guard to the Hatamen Gate consisted of only two soldiers mounted behind us like postillions and apparently under the impression that what they said, and the language they used, was quite inaudible to the ladies in front. This, unfortunately, was not the case. Then, when we reached the Hatamen and had driven through the tunnel under that massive pile of stone, we found that the Imperial Cavalry, whom I had pictured as elaborately garbed with coloured banners flowing from their spears, were in fact two rather elderly-seeming men mounted on sad-looking ponies. China is often like this, you look for great pomp and show, but there is none, and when you are least expecting it there is suddenly a glittering display that seems out of keeping with the occasion, like a funeral. There is no dignity about these ceremonies at all, just a wild display of vulgarity, as though the idea was to show how rich the deceased had been, this with tinsel glitter and dozens of hired mourners who scream with grief for a fixed fee.

  The drive was over dreadfully rutted roads and the four of us nearly had our heads knocked together, which was not good for our hats. Rather strangely, court etiquette had obliged us to wear these with evening dress, and mine was that small one you called too pert in the shop and did not want me to have, but if you must wear a hat with evening dress it would seem sensible to put on as small a one as possible. The other ladies, however, had not felt this, Mrs Harding wearing almost a whole flower border, while the two opposite were in very wide, floppy brims that in a stiff breeze became like sails out of control. After the first few miles we were obliged to stop the Minister’s carriage to have the back hood raised, which saw us completing the journey in considerable warmth and not able to see much out of the two smallish windows which had to be almost completely shut on their straps. I wasn’t much troubled, though, about no view, for from what I have seen of the country around Peking it is dull, with almost everything in the way of trees cut down or stunted by the poor for use as fuel in winter.

  We were given no instructions in Chinese Imperial Court etiquette, simply told that we were to follow the instructions of Prince Tai, a court chamberlain. The Prince has been in Europe twice, sent there by the Empress on missions before the Boxer uprising, to which he was strongly opposed, almost losing his head because of this. Luckily for the Empress, she did not issue the order to have this done and the Prince became chief go-between in negotiations with the Allies after the capture of Peking. Apparently these ladies’ tea-parties are one of his ideas for improved relations with foreigners.

  We were the first tea-party at the Summer Palace, the others having been given at the Empress’s winter home within the city, and during the drive I began to get the feeling that those responsible for making the arrangements for us had been rather carefree about this. Our route led through an area in which bandits and still roaming bands of Boxers are reported from time to time and I could not really feel that our elderly escorts, with their slung rifles, would be much use if we ran into one of these. I did not, of course, say anything to the others about this, but I think Edith Harding was having similar thoughts, and from time to time she kept pressing against her lips a handkerchief heavily scented with eau de Cologne.

  However, we arrived safely, driving through what looked rather like a triumphal arch, not part of any wall, just standing by itself, this set beyond a vast lake quite choked with lotus plants, though no blooms. As we got down from the carriage what I noticed at once was the perfect symmetry of the scene ahead, first a white marble bridge, gently arching, then marble steps to another gate, its tiles of Imperial yellow, then the roof of a second gate beyond this appearing over the first. Towering above all, on a hill, was a five-storey pagoda on a broad stone base, this flanked by two little pavilions on their own mounds, perfectly matched and looking rather l
ike fantastical summerhouses. Everything was matched in this way, the trees flanking the approach to the marble bridge pines of exactly the same size and shape. The sun was shining and everywhere was colour, not from flower beds, but from roofs and columns, a wild gaiety that still remained dignified because of the balance of everything.

  It is as though a thousand artists had been brought together and were able, under strict discipline, to work a miracle of harmony. When you speak of a palace you think of a building, but this is a whole city by a lake and climbing up a hill, with all its parts, pagodas, temples, woods, seeming to fit perfectly each with the other, so that nothing jars on the eye. Nervous as I was, I still felt, as we set foot on that shining, alabaster-like bridge, a sort of wild delight in this loveliness. Maybe the Empress should have spent the money on ships for her Navy built in Glasgow but, however much Richard would disapprove of this, I can’t help wondering if perhaps she was not right to squander vast sums on this beauty. Ships become out of date and are discarded, but a Summer Palace floating on its hill will endure forever.

  Really, Mama, I wish I were a poet and could sing of this place, that is how I still feel about it, looking back, and know I will forty years from now if I am still alive. Perhaps it can best be described by music. You know how Handel, of whom you are so fond, goes on with repeated phrases that are so well based on what has gone before that you expect or expect almost what is to come, and when it does, feel a kind of satisfaction because the theme is half recognised, though not completely, there is a surprise element, too. Well, the Summer Palace is like that, you are never totally surprised once you have got the idea of the design in your mind, turning your head to receive one half a surprise, the other half the completion of a pattern recognised. Oh, I am putting it so badly, but on that bridge I suddenly understood how some people are affected by a kind of madness about China, so that afterwards nothing can ever make up to them for being away from it. The poverty is terrible, and the suffering I have seen, even from my sheltered life, does not bear thinking about. Richard says I am not to think about it, but I do, stabbed by the sight of a beggar with rotting limbs inside a heap of rags mumbling away to indifferent passers-by, or my ricksha coolie coughing as he waits for me somewhere, so that I wonder if he ever gets enough to eat, or is ever, in winter, warm enough. These are only two of a thousand miseries on every hand. And yet, despite these things, there seem to come moments, and not just at something outstanding like the Summer Palace, when everything that is around you is suddenly perfect, like a painting in which the picture is filled with exquisite detail, only this picture is alive, moving and there is a kind of strange music with it. You will think I am being wildly fanciful and wondering what has happened to your daughter, and I am not quite sure what has, but perhaps after so short a time I am already coming to have a love for this country. I long to be able to speak to the people properly, learning the language with a teacher, but Richard says this is quite unnecessary for me, and won’t hear of it.