by Cecil Beaton
‘Did they loot the place before leaving?’ I asked.
‘They took everything they could lay their hands on. The village was bereft of everything — as if the locusts had come. On the last night here they ordered everyone out of the village and then set fire to it. Why, the blaze would have pleased the soul of Nero! He could have gone on fiddling all night. Unfortunately there was a wind and this carried the sparks and burning timbers hurtling through the air; and, although we fought the fires in this compound, the rafters caught in the chapel — one thing leads to another, and by morning all that remained was the little outhouse.’
FATHER MURPHY
How the others of our party always remain so optimistic about reaching our destination in these two rackety trucks is a continuous source of admiration to me. Some part of the mechanism seems always to be giving trouble; we often run out of petrol, and must remain sitting by some deserted mountain road until, miraculously, someone appears with a camphor-smelling tin of petrol-substitute. But yesterday our truck started showing signs of ill-health soon after our dawn departure. By the afternoon it was emitting the most appalling noises, and with the approach of evening it refused to make further effort and, 100 kilometres before arriving at Pihu, emitted a series of loud bangs before coming to an abrupt halt. ‘The sump has gone,’ we were told. Gordon Grimsdale laughed. Soon it would be dark: better walk on, he suggested to Leo Handley-Derry, and see if there’s anywhere to unroll our bedding for the night. Leo, with Bill, a breezy young cockney corporal carrying a gun, and I set forth. With the mountains a deep indigo, and the sinking sun like an enormous ripe crab-apple, the mountainous scenery was a Hokusai print, but it gave no promise of habitation. Leo smiled wryly; Bill was in high spirits, enjoying the adventure, particularly when, after we had been trudging for half an hour, he let off his gun and bagged a pheasant.
My own spirits rose when we saw, half hidden by a forest of bamboos, the dragon-tongue eaves and tiled roof of a temple. This would be quite a romantic place in which to spend the night. The temple, on closer inspection, appeared to be abandoned but for a few small chickens pecking about.
We ventured inside. Oversize gilt idols phalanxed the walls, Christian religious pictures and pictorial calendars hung on pillars, in one corner stood a harmonium while in another was an improvised dispensary. More chickens pecked around among the planks, wood-shavings and carpenters’ tools which lay around on the ground, but a broken-down brass bed, Victorian armchairs and packing cases around the room showed that the temple had been converted into a huge dining-room-bedroom and storehouse combined.
Leo picked up some books and read aloud the titles of some others: The Beat of the Heart, The True Jesus and The Analysis of the Blood Stream. The place, he conjectured, must belong to a medical missionary.
Suddenly we heard the familiar sound of someone rasping his throat prior to expectoration, and through a wicker doorway appeared an extremely aged and shabby Chinese man carrying a tray of medicine bottles and retorts.
Leo asked: ‘Are you master here?’
‘No, me Wang! Master itinerating!’
Leo asked if it would be possible for us to spend the night here as our truck had broken down. Wang was overcome with laughter. I have noticed that the Chinese do not merely laugh for amusement’s sake. They are apt to laugh when they are embarrassed, when they do not understand a question, or merely when they know of no other way of remaining aloof.
‘Everybody welcome,’ was the curt reply, but the elderly man seemed more interested in his bottles than in us.
Leo then told Bill to go back for the others, and asked Wang if there was anyone to make tea.
‘No, no servants,’ replied Wang. ‘Servants too expensive. Cook will provide.’
Leo was somewhat baffled. Wang explained, ‘Cook no servant. Cook my young brother — but very difficult person. Cook, he heathen.’
Leo inquired, ‘And you — are you a Christian?’
‘I, pastor,’ said Wang. ‘I teach the gospel with Father, but my brother heathen.’
‘Is he a good cook?’
‘Yes, very good cook, but very bad man.’
A small Chinese boy appeared in rags, and carrying buckets of water on a yoke. He was given Leo’s packet of tea, blew his nose in his fingers and left.
Leo asked, ‘Who was that?’
‘That’s Li.’
‘Isn’t he a servant?’ asked Leo doggedly.
‘No, Li be orphan. No servants, but plenty orphans,’ chortled the old man.
At last the well known sound of our truck horn was heard in the distance, and Leo asked if a few of Wang’s orphans could help with the luggage and bedding before darkness fell.
Soon the boys came in excitedly, staggering under loads of bed rolls, basins filled with shoes and sealed bags. All the impedimenta was dumped down in the centre of the room as Gordon Grimsdale appeared, followed by Bill — with another pheasant.
Darkness was almost upon us and there was little in the way of lighting so, although our host was absent, the orderlies threw down our bedding in the various rooms at our disposal. My own room had a store of pomelo fruit in it, and it smelt the most appetizing. But ‘arrangements’ turned out to be next to the kitchen, as they usually are in the more primitive parts of China.
We were drinking tea, trying to dispose of a plate of sawdust cakes which Wang’s brother had made for us, and discussing the missionary situation in China. It was a more or less recognized thing out here to put yourself up along the road with the missionaries, and they like it for they get very little opportunity of seeing people outside their flock. They are much respected, for they renounce everything in life, live only for others, are remarkably unselfish, and the medical ones do wonderfully useful work.
Someone was singing ecstatically in a high falsetto voice. Suddenly a small fat man with flashing eyes and pince-nez came in. He wore jodhpurs and a topi, and wheeled his bicycle in with him.
On seeing the company he reached a high ‘C’. ‘Why ho ho, you could knock me down with a feather! Why, for surely to goodness — can I be believing my eyes? Must I give my specs another rub? Oh, this is wonderful — company!’
Gordon trusted the little man would excuse this invasion.
‘Why, my friends, I’m so delighted — so flabbergasted I can hardly put tongue to the words.’
Gordon explained our predicament and Leo formally introduced the party, while the little man explained, in an avalanche of words, that he was Father Murphy, ‘a bloody neutral’, and asked if we couldn’t tell from his accent that he came from the west coast of Ireland. He confided, ‘I was just saying to meself, “Why I can’t be having visitors here for over two years!” — and goodness gracious, that was when Miss Armitage and Miss Wade from Puchang were going on furlough. God be with you — I’m surely glad to have you here under our roof for the night, though don’t expect creature comforts! We live simply, mind you. We’re so far away from everyone we can’t get anything done for us — so we put our hands to anything, don’t we, Wang?’ Wang cackled. ‘We make everything for ourselves. We make our own oil for the lamp: we dry the long grass for fuel: tobacco out of old tea, honey and treacle dried out — it’s not the same, but it does. Prices are so terrific — why, if we had to buy anything we’d be destitute! We even make our own matches.’
He produced a long taper with which he tried to light a lamp. When he struck this improvised match a tremendous explosion took place.
‘Our experiment has not been successful,’ laughed Father Murphy as Leo lit the lamp with his own briquette.
‘The great difficulty is to get drugs and medicines to carry on our work: we can’t get the stuff even if we could afford it, so we have to rely on substitutes. But it’s surprising what results you can get — why, we’ve even lanced an ulcer, haven’t we, Wang?’ Wang bellowed with laughter. ‘You see, there’s no one else in this part of the country. If they’ve anything wrong they come to me from miles around, and w
e have to do our best. It’s only a mere scratching of the surface, but it all helps.’
Bill reappeared with a third pheasant. On seeing this, Father Murphy’s enthusiasm almost reached the point of hysteria. ‘Goodness gracious! You’re just the man I want! We’ve got a leopard prowling around the neighbourhood. We’ve always wanted someone with a gun and ammunition. Several villagers have been eaten. Wang and I built all sorts of booby traps — but no success.’
Bill admitted he wouldn’t like to tackle a leopard with this gun; the first shot might not kill the animal, and it was no use waiting for a second shot.
Then Father Murphy talked of another problem. ‘You see that ladder? That’s for Timothy O’Grady.’ He pointed out a network of toy ladders and run-ways that ran up to the roof and along the rafters. ‘Timothy O’Grady’s a seven-year-old cat, but he’s all we have to catch the rats.’
‘Do you have many rats?’ I asked.
‘Oh, many rats!’ said Father Murphy, whilst Wang broke into much laughter.
Leo asked if there were any cases of plague.
‘Yes,’ said Father Murphy. ‘Oh, many plagues,’ added Wang while he and the three Chinese boys were transported with mirth.
Father Murphy told of his life here. ‘Of course my real work is spreading the gospel. The Chinese make such good Christians! They love “The Bibleman”, as they call me. Oh, they love the ritual — they love to kneel — they can pray for hours on end without getting tired! When I go out to tend my flock in the country all the people come out — perhaps more to see the foreigner than to hear the gospel! But you get tremendous crowds! They lift up their babies on their heads. Sometimes I can’t make them go away when I want to sleep. I always get them to take a door down off its hinges, and I sleep on that — there are apt to be less foreign bodies in it than in an ordinary bed board.’
Gordon asked if he bicycled all the way on his journeys.
‘Sometimes you can’t take the bike through the mountains — it’s too much to push — and I walk — as much as fifty lee a day. But they do the same journeys when they visit here for the four big holidays of the year. Christmas is a great time for them.’
Gordon then asked if the Chinese sang English carols and hymns.
‘Yes, we have a hymnal in Chinese, and they know all the tunes. Oh, they love to sing!’
I asked if they didn’t have a completely different music of their own.
Father Murphy enthused with complete lack of self-consciousness. ‘They have pentatonic music — only five notes in a scale — no half tones. “Doh, ray, me, fah, sol, lah, te, doh,” we have ...’ He sang in shrill falsetto. ‘They just have ...’ and he emitted in a squealing rasp the most tortured sounds.
Gordon admitted that he was surprised that Father Murphy had not taken down these huge gilded effigies. Heathen gods, weren’t they? Surely it made it more difficult for him with these things around?
Father Murphy was shocked. ‘Oh, the Chinese are most superstitious and would be terribly upset if I took these away. They’d think it very bad luck and wouldn’t come here. So we simply ignore them, that’s all. The Chinese pay no attention to them either. No, this isn’t perhaps an ideal place to work in, but there’s nothing else in the district. You see, we were burnt out of the compound when the whole village was set on fire. That happened over a year ago.’
Gordon, surprised, asked if the Japs came as far as this.
‘I’ll say they did, too!’ Father Murphy whistled. ‘They stayed for months before clearing out, and I’ll never forget that for the rest of my days. They’ve behaved terribly — oh, it was terrible! Our whole village was destroyed. Only twelve families escaped, the mission compound was demolished, and we’ve had to come here. But I’m doing all the talking! I want your news — we haven’t a wireless. Our aerial was blown away in a storm, and the condenser’s long worn out. Wang and I have been working on one made out of an old burnt tin, but it isn’t large enough; we’re waiting until another tin turns up.’
At dinner tonight Father Murphy did not, for once, live off the land. His enjoyment of our tinned foods was good to see, and he partook with relish of the contents of our flasks. His enthusiasm was so great that we wondered how we could disappoint him by ever going to our beds. He would pay no attention to any wistful plaints of fatigue, and the earliness of tomorrow’s departure.
Far into the night Father Murphy talked. He wove all sorts of elaborate theories about the way the war should be fought, and asked technical questions of its progress, but he never awaited the answer.
When, next morning, we bade Father Murphy farewell, he regretted that he had not asked us about things in the old world; he had not even inquired whether we thought all that much of Lord Louis Mountbatten. ‘But, goodness gracious, I’ve had enough to keep me thinking for months on end!’
We were happy to give him more practical reasons for remembering our visit. We were able to fix him up with a condenser and put his radio to rights, and we left behind quite a large selection of canned delicacies. Wang watched our departure with his usual gales of laughter, but Father Murphy’s pince-nez was clouded over as he waved good-bye.
CHINESE GENERALS AND TROOPS
Saturday, April 22nd
An early start again. Most of us were up by 4.30. By degrees I am getting accustomed to sleeping on a wooden board; but the pelvis is apt to become painful if one lies on the face too long; I find the skin is peeling off my left hip-bone; pity I am not fatter.
Our route today took us through the mountainous paths of Chekiang province. No country could be lovelier. Gigantic gorges and vast mountains in the distance. When seen close at hand, they are covered with every exotic and strange variety of tree; ilexes in new leaf, with pale stylized foliage as in medieval tapestry; bamboos growing like pipe-cleaners; cascades of blossom; azaleas, purple, shrimp, scarlet and yellow; a mauve tree covered with waxen trumpets; the flowers of the pomelo bursting from ivory nobs, are the apotheosis of all bridal blossoms, and their perfume is positively celestial. All day, the vistas before our eyes were varied and beautiful; winding rivers, bordered with white rambler-rose bushes and flecked with white shell-like sails; neat terraces filled with gold barley or pale-green bristles of rice.
The pathways, made through the mountainsides centuries ago, are still used as shortcuts by the coolies, who push their wheelbarrows, or small carts equipped with a bicycle wheel, throughout the hours of daylight. They look like souls in torment as they lumber past on their flat feet, sweating and flushed under the strain; their life is dedicated to this appalling labour. Someone said, ‘It’s easy for them to die, but their troubles start if they become ill.’ It was a poignant and upsetting experience to watch this interminable procession of labouring humanity. Even midget children carry loads with an obvious sense of responsibility, and hop out of the way of our truck, terrified but agile. Now and then the groups of coolies in their pagoda hats and blue trousers look extremely gay and charming. But here is a ghoulish figure staggering along at a tortoise pace, his torso and arms covered with discoloured patches and spots; his yoke makes life a torture to him. It is comforting to think he may pity us strangers as mere foreign barbarians, while he is a privileged inhabitant of the Middle Kingdom, the Centre of the World.
Leo, unfortunately, pointed out to me the latrines in one village, and remarked how much the Chinese enjoy defecating in a public place while watching life pass by. After this, not only did I catch sight of hundreds of these primitive arrangements of barrels and planks trader a matting roof; but a horrible stink was seldom long out of my nostrils.
We lunched at a depot of the British Military Mission in Longchuan. Again I was struck by the pathetic plight of these English youths, planted so far from their homes, in a world of new wood, bamboo, mud and flies. Fortunately, their work keeps them extremely busy, but the visual aspect of their existence is extremely bleak...
The next stage of our journey, towards Wenchow, should not have taken us more
than four hours to cover; but we are in China; our trucks are old; they have been evacuated down the Burma Road and are not meant to last more than a year without new engines; they have not been repaired because there are no spare parts. We broke down. George Dawson, covered with grease, was a most responsible and expert mechanic; but the valves were old; the maintenance people had not done their work properly.
Thus our arrival was behind schedule. Elaborate preparations had been made to welcome the GOC: a guard of honour and a band had been out waiting since early afternoon. (So often these military arrangements, made in such detail, end in chaos.) The remnant of daylight faded while we were still on the roadside being passed by energetic coolies on foot. We had over an hour’s normal journeying ahead. At last the engine revived. We were greeted by varying outposts. Finally, under a bridge, a line of Chinese soldiers and Colonel Larcom of the British Military Mission, who hobbled on a stick, greeted the General.
A less military-looking assemblage than ourselves it would have been difficult to imagine. Ah sorts of bundles and oddly-dressed servants piled anyhow on the van; my face had a leprous appearance under a heavy coating of cold cream against sunburn. Our hosts were extremely business-like and kind. We were presented to a dozen Chinese generals, each with the unscathed looks of a twenty-year-old, then conducted into a pretty sampan, newly-built of strong-smelling wood. With Chinese lanterns to light our way, we were paddled down a river. The Chinese C-in-C, with a small fat rubber face, enormous nostrils and shaved head, and his staff welcomed us with the usual exchange of compliments. He might have been any age; one cannot tell the age of the Chinese between twenty and forty. In a dining-room decorated with Chinese and English plaques, bearing suitable inscriptions about Sino-British friendship, and photographs of the leaders of the four great powers, stood a huge table covered with oranges and every sort of cake. The scene had the look of a Christmas festivity in the village hall. Speeches interpreted; more speeches; compliments; tea; everyone started to tuck in with enthusiasm. Suddenly, in the next room, an enormous hidden band struck up the most appalling caterwauling. When everyone stood to attention, I realized this din was the local rendering of ‘God Save the King’. The noise was so surprising that I could not keep a straight face and felt utterly ashamed of myself for shaking with convulsive laughter.
