A Most Immoral Woman

by Linda Jaivin

  Menzies was a man of standing in Tientsin and also enjoyed something of the aura of hero. During the Siege of Tientsin, when both British nationals and Chinese Christians gathered for safety in the basement of the Astor House, Menzies had taken charge of the defences. Under his command, the converts built barricades a mile long on the Bund Road out of whatever came to hand—cartons of condensed milk, bundles of camel hair, even furs. He currently served in the army of Viceroy Yuan Shih-k’ai, a man Morrison much admired. For all that, Morrison privately considered his compatriot miraculously stupid. In fact, he had also complained in his journal that Menzies was one of the most lethal, maddening bores in all of China. My nose bleeds when Menzies is in the house.

  Menzies had no idea that Morrison held him in such contempt. Like most Australians, Menzies was in awe of Morrison’s youthful feat of retracing the footsteps of the explorers Burke and Wills. With Menzies it was personal: Robert O’Hara Burke was his uncle. He was almost pathetically grateful to Morrison for paying him any heed at all. ‘Bless you for all your kindness,’ he once wrote. ‘I always feel that I owe much of the interest you take in me to the memory of my uncle. My endeavour shall be to prove worthy of that interest.’ Setting his jaw against his own hypocrisy, Morrison knocked on Menzies’s door. It was time to let him show his usefulness.

  ‘G.E.!’ Menzies’s expression was one of surprise and joy. He shook Morrison’s hand warmly. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’ Menzies’s voice was almost as resonant and deep as his own.

  Morrison’s features composed into a mask of geniality. ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’

  In less than an hour, the two men were standing at the gate of the Ragsdales’ residence in the compact de facto American Concession, close to the British one. Morrison smoothed down the front of his jacket and ran his fingers through his hair. At his side, Menzies stood as though ready for military inspection, a foil for any suspicion that Mrs Ragsdale might have of Morrison’s intentions.

  The Ragsdales’ Head Boy, Ah Long, opened the door. Collecting their calling cards, he ushered them into the parlour, returning with lidded cups of jasmine-flower tea before disappearing to inform the ladies of the house of their visit. Morrison, frantic with anticipation, attempted to calm himself by studying the décor. His eyes lit on a print of the famous late-nineteenth-century painting The Doctor by Luke Fildes, a depiction of a surgeon tending to a sick child. Morrison made a mental note to tell Dumas: it was their private theory that the more anxious people were to convince others of their respectability, the more likely they were to display a print of that very painting.

  Menzies followed Morrison’s gaze. ‘Splendid painting,’ he commented hopefully.

  ‘Indeed,’ answered Morrison, poker-faced.

  A lady’s footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs. Morrison replaced the lid on his cup with a clatter, and both men rose. The footsteps grew closer. They were not those of a lithe young woman.

  ‘Mrs Ragsdale. Thank you for receiving us. I believe you are well acquainted with Major George Menzies.’

  Mrs Ragsdale professed herself delighted to see them both. However, when Morrison enquired after Miss Perkins, their hostess’s face dropped so steeply that for a scarifying moment Morrison thought Mae had either died or gone home to California, and his heart clenched.

  ‘Miss Perkins is dreadfully indisposed,’ Mrs Ragsdale informed them. ‘I fear she is coming down with the grippe.’

  Morrison, relieved, offered to see her. ‘I am, after all, a medical doctor.’

  Mrs Ragsdale clasped her hands. ‘God bless you, Dr Morrison. But she’s sleeping. I feel we ought not disturb her.’

  ‘Of course,’ he conceded, pierced by a vision of her in bed.

  ‘I’ve applied a poultice of goose fat to her throat,’ Mrs Ragsdale assured him. ‘And she is well supplied with tea and lemon.’

  Morrison forced a smile. ‘She’s in good hands. Please convey our sincere wishes for a speedy recovery.’

  ‘I do hope you gentlemen will return to dine with us this evening in any case. Mr Ragsdale and I should be honoured if you would.’

  Menzies politely declined, sensing he had done his duty. Morrison accepted. Perhaps she will be well enough to come down to dinner. Please God.

  When he returned that evening, Mae was still too ill to join them. Yet just being under the same roof as that charming creature animated him to such a degree that, finding Edwin H. Clough of the New York Journal and several junior correspondents at the table as well, he was inspired to great wit and volubility, recording in his journal later that evening: I entertained them very pleasantly, dare I say brilliantly.

  The following day, Morrison, this time on his own, called upon the Ragsdales once again. ‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Ragsdale said, her voice laced with regret. ‘Miss Perkins is recovering, but she is feeling too poorly to receive. She couldn’t even accompany us to church this morning. Please, do have some tea.’

  Morrison stayed for an obligatory ten minutes, invented a previous appointment and set about his proper business.

  On the seventh of March, his third evening in Tientsin, Morrison joined Dumas, who had returned to the city, for a modest supper of fish soup, roast lamb, green peas, potatoes and plum pudding at the Tientsin Club. ‘How does it go with our young heiress?’ Dumas asked, pinching a splash of gravy from his moustache.

  ‘It doesn’t. She is ill with the grippe.’

  ‘Have you seen her at all?’

  ‘No.’ It was not for lack of trying. He had dispatched as many loving notes as were feasibly consistent with a friendly concern for her health. None came back. He had stopped at the Ragsdales several more times, feeling as transparent as thinly blown glass. Each time, she was too ill to come downstairs. He saw no need to go into such detail. ‘Of course, I’ve been awfully busy,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I haven’t given it that much thought.’

  ‘Well, you still owe me for keeping Mrs Ragsdale occupied that time at Mountain-Sea Pass. That woman could talk the ear off a brass jug. What have you occupied yourself with in the absence of your fair maiden?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been busy enough. I’ve seen the corruptible Chow of the China Merchants’ Steam Navigation Company; dull, fat Admiral Yeh; the very stupid Fenton, full of mystery and brimming over with impossible facts; our Japanese friends, as gracious and unforthcoming as ever; railway men and bankers; Wingate; and Yuan Shih-k’ai, whom I have concluded is the only useful man in Tientsin. Present company excepted. I also called on Viceroy Yuan at his home on Wen-bo Road, accompanied by his interpreter, Ts’ai. I am consistently impressed by Yuan. I am convinced that he is the most forward-thinking and civilised Mandarin in all of China. His work promoting libraries, tree-planting, a unified currency, not to mention a Western-style police force, has been entirely meritorious.’

  ‘And yet he betrayed the movement for reform that you support.’

  ‘Tosh.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Dumas, fortified by the wine. ‘You know it, G.E. At the crucial moment, the young Emperor, aware that his aunt was cooking up some plot against him, sent a note ordering Yuan to arrest her first. Yuan betrayed him. If Yuan hadn’t told the Empress Dowager what was afoot, she wouldn’t have arrested her nephew or had T’an Ssu-tung and the others executed. So—’

  Morrison cut off his friend mid-sentence. ‘I’m not disputing the facts or the outcome. But Yuan had reason to doubt that the Emperor’s order to detain the Empress Dowager was genuine. Colour of the ink: it was written in black instead of the imperial vermilion. He had no choice but to reveal the plot to the court. The point is, if China has any hope today of becoming a strong and modern nation, it lies with the likes of Yuan. Even if not all of those on the side of the reformers can see this.’

  ‘So you say,’ Dumas replied mildly, ‘and I have no reason to doubt you.’

  ‘Anyway, I certainly have gathered far more material than I can possibly fit into a six-hundred-and-fifty-word telegram,
and that’s all that concerns me for the moment.’

  ‘Very good. Oh, what do you make of the news that the Russians are rallying? They claim to have sunk four Japanese battleships.’

  ‘I am sure the Japanese will retaliate,’ Morrison responded tersely, attacking his peas.

  In Which Morrison Ponders a Paradox of Female

  Literacy and We Are Introduced to the

  Audacious Scheme of Lionel James

  Back in Peking, Morrison wrote to Mae twice on the first day, twice on the second. Not even a postal card came in reply. His pride could not countenance the notion that she did not care enough to respond. And so his mind focused on other explanations. Perhaps she’d been more ill than Mrs Ragsdale had realised. He castigated himself for not having insisted on seeing her. On the morning of the third day, his correspondence took on a tender tone, solicitous and concerned for her health. But then he worried about sounding too much like a doctor and not enough like a lover. And so that afternoon he expressed himself with greater ardour, straining awkwardly towards the poetic. Meanwhile, with each delivery of the mail sack, his hopes swooped and plunged like a kite riding the capricious breezes of the Peking spring.

  But if Morrison fretted, he did not languish. Constitutionally incapable of idleness, he filled these days with rounds of contacts, catching up with correspondence and cataloguing his books. When an acquaintance mentioned the burgeoning coolie trade to South Africa, he investigated the possibility of investing. He hatched a plan to abet the Japanese cause by sparking a run on the Russo-Chinese Bank, the institution that funded the Russian administration in Manchuria.

  One afternoon, as Cook set out for the markets, he thought to ask Kuan how Yu-ti was settling in.

  Kuan’s gaze flickered at the mention of Yu-ti’s name. He took a moment to answer. ‘Cook not like her to read. He take away her books.’

  Morrison did not expect this answer and it interested him. ‘So she reads. That’s unusual for a girl. Ah—but of course. Her father was a follower of T’an Ssu-tung. But wouldn’t Cook find it useful to have a wife who can read and write?’

  Kuan shook his head. ‘No. He has old thinking.’ He seemed lost in thought. When he finally spoke, it was with the kind of passion that Morrison had never heard in his Boy’s normally careful voice. ‘Women are human beings, not slaves of men. Not property.’

  ‘Very progressive thinking, Kuan. You got that from the missionaries, did you?’

  ‘The ancient sage Mo-tsu talks about universal love, and Buddha about compassion. And Confucius spoke of jen—I think in English you say benevolence. We do not need Christianity to say woman equal to man.’

  ‘So you say. But T’an Ssu-tung, K’ang Yu-wei and others who’ve spoken about women’s rights—they themselves admit they were influenced by Christian ideas.’

  ‘Confucius and Mo-tsu and Buddha all came before Jesus. Maybe Christians got their ideas from them.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Morrison replied without conviction. ‘Speaking of the reformers, I hear that the anti-Ch’ing movement is gathering steam. Have you heard anything about that?’

  ‘People are upset about the war. They say foreign powers are slicing up China like a soft melon. They—’

  Morrison interrupted. ‘Surely they can see that’s the fault of the Old Buddha, can’t they?’

  Kuan measured his words. ‘She is not the whole problem.’

  ‘If China enjoyed good, sound governance, its sovereignty would not be in jeopardy,’ pronounced Morrison with an air of finality. Something occurred to him. He returned to the previous topic. ‘So, Yu-ti was taught to read and write.’

  Kuan nodded, seemingly wary of where this was going.

  ‘And yet she’s not allowed books or a brush by her husband.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a tragedy, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why does a woman who is privileged enough to be able to read and write not do so?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Kuan said, frowning. ‘Maybe my English…’

  ‘No,’ Morrison replied. ‘It’s not your English. It’s Miss Perkins. I don’t understand it myself. Why doesn’t she write to me?’

  The men travelled in silence for a while. ‘You know, Kuan,’ Morrison ventured, ‘it’s too bad Yu-ti wasn’t married to you.’

  ‘Not good to speak of this. You know yuan fen? We say two people have yuan fen or no. If no yuan fen, they will never be together. It is will of Heaven. Yu-ti’s yuan fen is with Cook.’

  Something in Kuan’s expression told Morrison it would not be a good idea to pursue the topic any further. Besides, having brought up the subject of Mae in what he intended to be a light manner, he found himself lost in the morass of his own confused feelings.

  On the evening of the third day back in Peking, Dumas arrived for a visit. Morrison greeted him warmly and invited him to stay for dinner.

  Over Ceylon tea and a plate of Kierluff’s biscuits, the men exchanged news and gossip. Morrison was more than happy to reveal to his colleague Granger’s latest crimes against correspondence. ‘He claims in one breath that the Russians are holding out well at Port Arthur, and in the next implies they are about to crumble.’

  ‘I admire the man,’ Dumas said. ‘’Tis no simple task to contradict oneself in such a large and generous manner.’

  ‘Naturally, I declined to pass on his report. He then had the gall to request a credit of five hundred pounds. I am quite sure it would be spent on the syphilitic American whore, an erstwhile resident of Maud’s Brothel, with whom I understand he’s taken up residence. Either the sex or the pox has addled his brain. I refused, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Dumas said, spooning pressed sugar into his cup. ‘Have I mentioned that my wife has taken passage on a steamship. She’ll soon arrive back in China.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  Dumas plucked a biscuit off the plate. ‘I have no doubt that she will take advantage of my contrition in all sorts of unpleasant ways.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘For example, she is prone to nagging about my weight. But I shall defy her, at least on that count, and ask what it matters. She’s not going to leave me because I have a potbelly, so long as it is never again discovered resting against another woman.’ He bit into the biscuit defiantly. ‘Ah. I knew there was something I had to ask you. I hear that The Times has dispatched the famous war correspondent Lionel James to cover the war. How is he getting on?’

  ‘All right, I believe, though the Japanese have yet to accede to his plan.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘To set up a wireless communications ship able to report freely from the theatre of war. It’s never been done before. Imagine—James could witness a naval battle, fire off a report and see it published halfway around the world the following day.’

  Dumas shook his head. ‘It would be a miracle. But he’ll need the cooperation of the Japanese. Will they guarantee him safe passage, do you think?’

  ‘Hard to say. I’m not overly optimistic. The Japanese government and navy will certainly be worried by the thought of him getting out reports that haven’t passed by their censors.’

  ‘It sounds as though he will be thwarted then,’ Dumas observed.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Have you ever met him?’

  ‘Yes. In London.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Serious and self-willed,’ Morrison responded.

  ‘I cannot tell if you are complimenting or undermining him.’

  ‘I do like James. But I’ll give you an example. When I met him in London, I asked him to take me to the theatre. I was hoping for a sprightly sort of spectacle, ideally with dancers. He took me to an earnest play about dying kings. Later he told me that it was out of respect for my position that he chose such an entertainment.’

  ‘I suppose I should consider it fortunate that I haven’t yet been taken for such a respectable man that I can�
�t be afforded the occasional extravaganza,’ Dumas remarked.

  ‘Indeed. The point about James is that he is as serious in his purpose as he is in his tastes. I assume he will knock on every door—he’ll knock down every door—if he has to, but he will get his way.’ It occurred to Morrison that there was a lesson in this for him. ‘What are your plans? Do you return to Tientsin soon?’

  ‘No, I shall be delayed here. Mind if I stay?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Morrison replied. ‘It’s just that it’s been four days. I am becoming concerned about the reliability of the post and was thinking you might deliver a note to Miss Perkins for me.’

  ‘I’ve heard that C.D. Jameson leaves for Tientsin tonight. You could send it with him.’

  ‘Jameson? That rum-soaked homunculus? Don’t you recall that he diddled me out of a luncheon with Miss Perkins when she last visited Peking?’

  ‘True, but he does go tonight. And I hear he has some business with Mr Ragsdale, so he shall be dropping in on them anyway.’

  Morrison made a face. ‘Oh, why not? He owes me.’

  In Which Miss Perkins Comforts Our Suffering

  Hero with a Letter and C.D. Jameson

  Makes a Terrible Boast

  Ernest, honey…

  Can you forgive me for not coming downstairs that day? I was terribly indisposed. I fear you would have been much put off by my appearance, which was frightful. How I wish I had been well enough to go to dinner or to meet you at all in the days you were in town. I understand from Mrs R. that you were the very life of the party! Mr Jameson kindly passed on your latest letter, which I treasure along with the other letters you have sent by post…I know I have been a terrible correspondent in every way, and still am if you would count my penmanship. I was never very good at penmanship. Once, a letter I wrote to Papa in Washington (you know he is a senator) took months to deliver because the writing on the envelope was so very poor! Papa had much to say about that, as you might imagine.