by Linda Jaivin
In Which It Is Seen ‘That, in ‘Times of
National Crisis, Even the Wives of Tycoons
May Turn Radical, J.O.P. Blunt Cautions
Our Hero About the Dangers Posed by Feminism
and Mrs Blunt Demonstrates the Superiority of Women’s Intuition
Having missed dinner with his hosts the night before, Morrison joined John Otway Percy Blunt and his wife, Constance, for breakfast the next morning.
‘It’s grand to see you again, G.E.,’ Blunt pronounced in his soft Irish brogue. ‘And what will occupy your time in Shanghai?’
‘I’ll do what I can to advance the case of the Haimun. I also have several stories to pursue.’ Morrison elaborated on all but the story that was occupying him most completely and was, in any case, of no consequence to The Times. ‘And I would like to do some shopping,’ he added, turning to Mrs Blunt. ‘I should seek your advice. I wish to get a number of things that are difficult, if not impossible, to find in Peking, including a bicycle and a good tea service.’
‘That’s easy in Shanghai,’ she replied. ‘You’ll want to visit Lane Crawford. It’s a most marvellous emporium.’
‘My dear,’ Blunt interrupted, ‘before you enumerate your reasons, which I know to be manifold, I must enquire of our guest if he has heard of Tso Jung.’
‘Is that a bazaar to which you would send me instead?’ Morrison asked, po-faced. He saw how Mrs Blunt contemplated her husband with the sort of resigned sullenness that, from his observation, appeared to be the glue of long marriages.
‘Uh, no, Tso Jung is—’
‘The eighteen-year-old author of The Revolutionary Army,’ Morrison interjected with a half-wink at his hostess. She seemed cheered by the gentle poke at her husband’s expense and Morrison silently thanked Kuan, who, ear to the ground as usual, had alerted him to the growing movement around the young Shanghainese radical. ‘Preaches from within the safety of the International Concession that China has become a race of slaves that needs to free itself from both tyranny and foreign domination. Wants to annihilate the “hairy and horned” race of Manchus, institute American-style constitutional government, bring about equality of the sexes—that sort of thing. Typical of the more radical of the heirs to the failed reform movement of 1898. What about him?’
‘I should never think to stump you on any point of Chinese politics,’ Blunt said. ‘So you are undoubtedly aware that the Russo-Japanese War is giving new impetus to Tso and his adherents. They talk of China being “carved up like a melon” by the foreign powers.’
‘That’s interesting, though such talk is nothing new. I have heard this before from Kuan, and others as well, of course.’ Morrison chased a scrap of bacon across his plate with his knife and fork. ‘It was widely current at the time of the Boxers, as you know.’
‘True, but support is growing for the anti-foreign cause amongst the intellectuals. The Boxers were but pig-ignorant peasants.’
‘I have not yet met a peasant in China who is ignorant when it comes to pigs,’ Morrison replied. ‘That is one subject they tend to know much about. But I take your point. There is much disaffection abroad.’
‘Indeed,’ Mrs Blunt said. ‘And not all of it aimed at the Ch’ing Court. There is anger at this war.’
‘My wife is suddenly a follower of politics.’
‘I have always been a follower of politics.’ Constance Blunt turned to Morrison. ‘My husband thinks that a woman’s attention to the details of shopping and other entertainments prevents her from having a brain for more serious matters.’
‘My wife has discovered the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft,’ Blunt observed mildly. ‘They have caused no end of trouble and upset.’
Mrs Blunt smiled in her husband’s direction as though he were a young and stupid boy whose idiocies were not worth refuting.
‘Mrs Wollstonecraft makes the odd valid point, of course,’ Blunt continued, ‘but she does stir up the ladies terribly. When you do find yourself a good woman to wed, my dear Morrison, check first that she is not one of Wollstonecraft’s disciples.’
‘He teases,’ Mrs Blunt said, ‘but he would have it no other way. Everyone knows that the measure of a civilisation is the position and progress of its women.’
Blunt widened his eyes at Morrison.
‘I saw that, dear. To return to the topic of Chinese radicalism,’ Mrs Blunt continued, ‘last year there was a significant public protest against Russian designs on Manchuria. You would know of it, of course, Dr Morrison.’
‘I heard something, yes.’
‘Well, a diamond ring turned up amongst the donations. People said it was from Liza Roos. You know Liza Roos?’
‘Wife of the Baghdadi Jew Silas Hardoon, wealthiest man in Shanghai, or near to it. Eurasian lady but considers herself Chinese before anything else.’
‘Precisely. And is most sympathetic to the patriotic cause.’
Morrison shrugged. ‘Interesting position for the wife of an opium importer. But that the patriots of all classes are aligned against the Russians means that I have no quarrel with their patriotism.’
‘I believe they’re equally opposed to the Japanese,’ said Mrs Blunt.
The image of the man of God spanking sweet Maysie, suppressed by Morrison with the utmost effort since the night before, welled up unbidden, bringing bile with it. Blades of fury, humiliation and jealousy stabbed at his heart. How could she? Why do I put up with it?
‘I know,’ Mrs Blunt conceded, ‘that’s not what you want to hear.’
Morrison fell silent, in no mood to argue.
Blunt studied their guest over the rim of his cup. ‘You appear unusually distracted,’ he said.
‘Distracted? I hadn’t myself noticed. Then again, if I was truly distracted, I wouldn’t have, would I?’
‘I wonder,’ Blunt ventured, ‘if you are not as sanguine about the war as your dispatches would suggest.’
‘Nonsense.’ Morrison stirred a lump of pressed sugar into his coffee. His spoon clicked so forcefully against his cup that he saw he gave cause to Mrs Blunt to fear for her porcelain. ‘If I am distracted, it is not by lack of optimism about Japan’s victory.’
Then, for a woman’s instincts were strong and Morrison no stranger, Mrs Blunt mused, ‘Personally I wonder if your distraction is not something to do with a fascinating young maiden we have been hearing much about.’
‘Which fascinating young maiden would that be? I should like to meet someone of that description.’ Morrison was normally happier extracting gossip from others than revealing it about himself. Yet he was fond of Mrs Blunt. Replacing his cup and rising, he added with a glimmer of a smile, ‘And if you will excuse me, I am going to do just that. I’m to meet her in just over an hour’s time.’
In Which, to Morrison’s Relief, Mrs Ragsdale
Refuses to Go Native and Morrison Falls in Love
with an Honest Woman
‘I don’t know that it is such a good idea, Mae, dear. Besides, the ladies of the American Women’s Club in Shanghai were looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Oh, Mrs R. There’ll be other occasions. It’s not every day one has the chance to visit the Chinese quarter in the company of such an eminent expert in Chinese ways as Dr Morrison.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Ragsdale agreed, her voice seesawing between anxiety and deference. ‘I didn’t mean to imply…But I worry.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Mae responded breezily.
‘My dear,’ said Mrs Ragsdale, searching without luck for back-up in Morrison’s neutral expression, ‘I should hardly call smallpox and other such maladies “nothing to worry about”.’ Mrs Ragsdale pressed her lips together so tightly she appeared to have swallowed them. ‘Even if, praise God, you are not infected with something fatal, there is always the likelihood of being rudely…jostled. The Chinese mob is not well-disposed to those of the fairer races, not to mention the weaker sex. Anything could happen.’ Sweat beaded her forehead. ‘And the smells are reputed
to be quite overwhelming. Mrs Clarkson said that her son went there one afternoon and came back smelling like a stable; it took days to wash the stench of garlic and joss and who knows what else out of his clothing.’
It would be a most unusual stable that stank of garlic and joss, Morrison thought. Growing impatient, he said, ‘I’ll look after Miss Perkins.’
‘Oh, bless you, Dr Morrison,’ Mrs Ragsdale replied. ‘I know you will. I never meant to imply otherwise. It’s just that—’
‘The great traveller and author Isabella Bird did it some years ago,’ Mae interjected. ‘She wrote that she was similarly warned but, in fact, was allowed to explore the streets unmolested. She wrote that the smells were no worse than anywhere else in China.’
‘Isabella Bird is an adventuress.’ Mrs Ragsdale’s enunciation of the word suggested that it signified an entirely alien life-form.
‘Really?’ Morrison affected a scandalised tone of voice. ‘I had no idea. On the occasions I’ve met Miss Bird, I’ve always found her to behave most modestly.’
Mae giggled and Mrs Ragsdale blanched. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to insinuate…’
‘Ah,’ Morrison said with an amiable air, ‘of course not. That’s all very well then.’
Mae stood up. ‘We should probably be off.’
Mrs Ragsdale bit her lip. ‘What will I tell your father…?’
‘My dear papa is busy in Washington making laws for the United States of America. I’d imagine that he would be most astonished, if not displeased, to be told anything at all about some innocent excursion. Mrs Ragsdale, please don’t worry. I’m a big girl.’
The previous day, Morrison had departed with decidedly mixed feelings. He had, in truth, misgivings about the wisdom of continuing the relationship with Mae at all. But her spirit of fun and adventure was too adorable, not to mention contagious. He recalled how it had drawn him to her in the first place. By the time they said goodbye to the fretful Mrs Ragsdale, he was quite looking forward to the outing.
‘I would hate to go through life so fearful of everything,’ Mae said as they set out in a hired two-in-hand. ‘I am certain that you could not be so fearful of anything if you tried.’
‘You may find this odd,’ Morrison replied, ‘and I don’t always confess this, but I understand timidity more than you might think. My saintly mother has expended much ink over the years beseeching me not to seek out unnecessary danger. Every instinct tells me that her worry is neither misplaced nor foolish. Indeed, I have very nearly come to grief a dozen times in as many countries. It is an effort of will not to become a cautious man as a result. You could say that my whole life has been a combat against a natural shrinking from danger. I might not have attempted half the feats I did had it not occurred to me that running from them was the more sensible option. If I may be so bold as to say so, one of the greatest of your myriad charms, dear Maysie, is what I perceive as your native, unabashed and unaffected courage.’
‘Thank you for saying so. But we are not so dissimilar. It has also often struck me that when we think of soldiers valiantly charging the frontline, we don’t always remember that something else may be in pursuit from behind. We all have our demons.’
‘And what demons could possibly be in pursuit of you?’
‘I have told you about George Bew, my three-time fiancé. I don’t believe I mentioned his mother, Mattie. For years, Mattie Bew wrote the dearest, most heartbreaking letters to me. She traced them in faint blue pencil on nearly transparent paper, as though trepidatious of leaving any bold mark on the world. She was almost pathetically keen to hear of my adventures, even when they might have been prejudicial to the interests of her own son. Once, I asked her what she wanted for herself. She baulked, as though it had never occurred to her to think about it. This vision of life lived meekly and through the agency of others—for she was in thrall to both husband and son—has never left me. It chills my blood. It is this demon that makes me run, and run fast.’
Ever a mystery, the alchemy of love. With Mae, Morrison had quickly progressed from lustful curiosity and delight to obsession. Then his passion had begun to gutter, the flame burning less hotly as more and more contenders appeared to steal its oxygen. The day before, he’d nearly walked away from her entirely. But for whatever reason, and despite his most rational intentions, Morrison now felt his heart clench around a stronger emotion. He saw in that instant that he and Mae were kindred spirits, fellow adventurers who shared a secret about courage and a fierce commitment to it. The tide of affection swept away all consciousness of rivals past and present as effectively as if they had gone down together with all the warships, Russian and Japanese, sunk to date in the Yellow Sea.
By now they had reached the Chinese City’s distinctive curved walls. Instructing the driver to wait for them, they dismounted and walked through the city gate.
Inside the walls, the brackish tang of the Whampoa River was complicated by wafts of pork, joss and tobacco, as well as less salubrious vapours rising off the foul drift of sewage, horse droppings and raw humanity. It was a far worse concoction than even Mrs Ragsdale had imagined but, to Morrison’s delight, Mae did not appear at all fazed by it. A coolie pushed past, on his bent back the jiggling corpse of a fat sow bound for a restaurant. Everywhere was activity, industry, hubbub. Mae wanted to sample it all. The joss houses where the air hummed with the monks’ sonorous chanting and where the fragrance of sandalwood incense clung to one’s hair. An opium den where men lay on hard beds in soft dreams, the sickly sweet smoke curling around their heads. Above the laneways, a tassel of freshly laundered footbinding bandages, quilt covers, silk trousers—‘the flags of a hundred nations’—fluttering from a horizontal forest of bamboo. Ahead, a wedding procession led by blustering brass horns and spanking cymbals, red on red; behind, a funeral with its wailing trumpets and sackcloth mourners, white on white. Shanghai’s seductive world of sensation. Everything interested her. Everything delighted her.
When travelling with other Westerners, Morrison had frequently noticed the odd phenomenon of China—so alive to him when he was on his own or with Chinese people—appearing to flatten out like wallpaper. Mae, in her sparking excitement, caused everything to quicken and appear more vivid. It had been some time since Morrison had experienced the heart-stopping wonderment that China in all of its teeming life, art and invention could induce. Around Mae, he experienced everything as freshly as when he had first landed. It occurred to him now that this was due to her astonishing, albeit confronting, honesty. Most people held between themselves and the world a shield of deception, little lies, social poses, self-delusions, pretend responses and rank hypocrisies, himself included. She, miraculously, had retained the openness and directness of a child. As he’d said to Molyneux, if there was a more lovable quality than such honesty, he did not know what it could possibly be.
In Which Dr Kellogg’s Injunctions Are Roundly
Ignored, Morrison Is Shanghaied, Old Friends
Come and Go, and a Word Beginning with the
Letter ‘F’ Is Spoken Aloud
They left the Chinese City before the gates closed for the night and took the carriage to the Chang Gardens in the International Settlement to round off what Mae called ‘our Chinese day’.
It was dusk and the lanterns set out along the artfully landscaped paths and swinging from the upturned eaves of the park’s pavilions glowed against a pastel sky. A courtesan in a robe the colour of plum blossoms peered at Mae from behind the swaying beaded curtains of her palanquin and Mae waved, eliciting a smile. On the lake, men and women idled in painted pleasure boats, their laughter and the sounds of flute and zither floating on the moist breeze. ‘I could stay in China forever,’ Mae murmured dreamily and Morrison was filled with dumb hope.
They took a table on the second floor of a teahouse overlooking the lake. The waiter placed a miniature terracotta teapot and small cups on the table along with a selection of dainties. There were crisp biscuits coated in sesame; steamed, see-t
hrough ‘crystal dumplings’; parcels of meat wrapped in withered beancake skins; boiled peanuts. Morrison watched, besotted, as Mae set to the feast with abandon.
Selecting a steamed bun filled with a paste of peanuts, sugar and salt, she cried, ‘Peanut butter! How funny. It’s all the rage in New York. They served it with watercress in sandwiches at the Vanity Fair Tearoom last time I was there. Have you been?’
‘New York or the Vanity Fair Tearoom?’ Morrison asked, mustering shards of pink ginger around a ‘little basket dumpling’ of minced pork.
‘Either.’
‘I’ve been to New York but my travels were not so well funded that I could aspire to tea on the Upper West Side. I was renting a room on 19th Street for two dollars a week. I was far better acquainted with the ten-cent pork-and-potatoes special at Beef Steak John’s, and that I could only afford to eat once every two days.’
‘Goodness! It’s hard to imagine. You know, I don’t think I shall ever tire of your stories. Even if you have tired of mine. But what on earth were you doing there under such circumstances?’ She levered up a slice of mock goose with her chopsticks.
‘Looking for work. I was fresh out of medical school and still hopeful of inflicting my poor talents on the sick. But when I applied for the post of warder at the New York Hospital on 15th Street, the secretary took one look at my testimonials and demanded, “How do I know these haven’t been written by yourself?”’
‘What did you say?’
‘Had they been written by myself, they’d have been much more flattering.’
Her laughter sparkled. She truly was a gem, every facet gleaming with happiness. He watched with contentment as she tested the braised eel, exclaiming over its subtle texture and taste. ‘You know, Mrs Ragsdale is terrified to dine in any Chinese eatery, certain that if she manages to cheat the plague she will be shanghaied into service in a Chinaman’s brothel.’
‘Mrs Ragsdale has a most fertile imagination.’
