by Cecil Beaton
The hospital, with its 180 beds, is filled to capacity; many cases cannot be admitted, and Chinese soldiers are apt to die of fever through lack of medicines. The doctors improvise or try to buy substitutes. Yet they meet with such opposition from the Chinese in control that often they earn more jealousy than gratitude.
Thursday, May 11th
Leo and Leslie took me into the town, but as an air raid alert was on most of the shops were boarded up. With the official rate of exchange, the prices are fifteen times more for us than for the Chinese; thus some gaudily embroidered satins were 100 pounds each length, and candles were twenty shillings each. Our craving for sweets led us to pay thirty shillings for a pound of rather ordinary caramels that would cost one and sixpence in England.
Saturday, May 13th
Our hosts, the American missionaries, were in fine spirits. One of the women had helped deliver twins during the night. Mrs Hekma had wrapped a great number of Bibles, while Mr Hekma addressed the packages in Chinese characters to be sent off by post. Here, in the remotest spot in China, we seemed to be living in any American old folks’ home. A wizened Uncle Sam said grace before canned food meals, and a celery-coloured doctor, with a deep voice like a chisel, joined in the singing of hymns and old Southern folk songs, accompanied by a grey-haired lady in pince-nez and a foulard dress, who hit plenty of wrong notes on the upright.
They were a friendly, cheerful family and extremely hospitable, but we were too self-conscious to enjoy their parlour games, and since we have had no luck in hitch-hiking on a transport plane, we have decided to board the next train to Kweilin.
Monday, May 15th
‘This train should arrive at 7pm,’ someone said: others said, ‘9 o’clock’. Distance, 400 miles. Train travelled at snail’s pace. Hot, thunderous weather turned to storm; rain poured down and came through ceiling of coach — and bugs came out. We killed some with the end of a spoon. Chinese in carriage yawned with the noise of bellowing cows, spat, gutturally grunted, broke wind, picked spots on their faces, excavated their nostrils, blew their noses in their fingers, then rubbed their fingers on chair-seats or wall. No one suffered from inhibitions or false modesty: men lay with barnacled feet out of windows, women fed babies at breast, everyone made their own personal addition to the general pandemonium. By degrees the energy stored up during the night seeped out of every pore of my body.
Leo has lived for many years in China. Before the war his firm planted 20,000 trees; a small proportion were eventually to be used as pit props. They were policed for protection; but of late, this had become impossible. Within a year all the trees had been cut down, stolen, sold or used for fuel. The people are so poor, know so well the horror of poverty, that if ever they can see a rare opportunity of rising above a degree of starvation-level they feel they would be foolish to miss it.
For sixteen hours we sat in the same bug-infested seats. Large bumps arose on wrists and arms. There was not sufficient light to read. At Kweilin North Station we started shunting backwards and forwards. After one hour and a quarter, we were back in the same station from which we had been painfully jolted. When eventually we arrived at Kweilin South, we had to wade through ankle-high mud to get into a truck. We came back to Hemming’s house, a recently built, curiously suburban villa, which has been commandeered for the overflow of officers of the British Military Mission. Although it is almost unfurnished, and without a book or a fire, by comparison with our recent lodgings it now appeared comfortable and even luxurious.
Tuesday, May 16th
J. B. Priestley is said to have given a talk on the radio about a typical Chinese who spends all his money on some single object of beauty; how, when he walks along the street, he pauses to admire a tree, and a little farther, stops to listen to the note of a bird; how he will spend hours contemplating one perfect bloom. What utter bosh! He is much more likely to espy a particularly large cake of cow-dung, and rush to take it home before anyone else gets it!
A LITTLE ESCAPISM
Hemming’s House
For many days now the skies have emptied themselves in a steady downpour. The mountains which surround this remote town and have the improbable contours of roller coaster railways have been hidden completely. Flying has been at a standstill so half a dozen of us have waited — with teeth chattering from the cold — for a break in the clouds so that we can fly back to the comparative civilization of Chungking.
The noise of heavily-shod feet stamping on the wooden floors, and raucous voices echoing in the empty rooms, prevents me from concentrating on a book, or even on the talk about the currency problem, the various forms of Chinese graft, or technicalities or statistics.
The first trapped minutes were the worst. Finding myself in this one-eyed dump, I began to know a little of what a prisoner of war must feel. By degrees, I became resigned to this Kafkaesque existence in this unfurnished Golders Green bungalow in a Chinese no-man’s-land.
Yet it was a welcome escape when Akë Hartman, a Swedish-American, who has lived mostly in China and Japan (he recently escaped from Shanghai) arrived out of the blue mist and took Philip Smith and myself to have a Chinese-Turkish bath. This proved to be a unique interlude of sensuous delight — an astounding and welcome contrast to the austerity of the BAAGHQ mess.
Everything looked appetizing and unfamiliar: the honey-coloured wooden walls were bare except for a few notices in decorative calligraphy: discarded clothes were hung high around the ceilings — hoisted on long rods: everywhere hot water: a tireless bath-boy to soap and douche one, then to run with a relay of large hot towels. But more to follow: one boy massaged the feet while another banged one’s legs and back in a manner that seemed to open the sluices and allow the blood to circulate in all sorts of long-forgotten regions of the body. Finally, another boy added a touch of nanny-like cosseting when, by the light of a small lamp, he started a lengthy and most meticulous pedicure. Not only was each nail treated as a jeweller might prepare a prize stone for setting, but the toes themselves were treated to a massage as if each had been a separate limb: one did not know how flexible each individual toe could become, or what a relaxing, delicious soothing of the nerves such concentration on these small extremities could produce. In fact, although this immaculate emporium was of the simplest sort, and catered for the ordinary poor man to whom such treatment is considered a necessity, for Westerners it was the apex of luxury and civilized subtlety.
Philip Smith became excessively British and, I fear, did not approve of such sybaritic délicatesses; he returned in the pouring rain for fried meatballs out of a tin at the mess. But I felt like the cat that had swallowed the Devonshire cream, and, deciding that Hartman was an ideal cicerone, hung on to him until he took me to the Vitamin Restaurant, which was curiously named in view of the exquisite refinement of the chicken dish which is said to be the best in China.
In our chambre particulière we ate every sort of local delicacy while Mr Wu, the manager, talked to us with an almost too determined erudition. Later, we were bidden to the upstairs room of the proprietor of the restaurant: looking like Jean Cocteau, he was a young Chinese who, having been wounded, was now free to run this rich restaurant, which he does with an imperious wave of his left hand. Everything seemed to him so easy. He gave me a cigar, and we talked on aesthetic subjects for a long while until he asked if we would excuse him while he went to his room for a smoke. Perhaps we would care to accompany him? We would. The bed was laid out with a clean spread, and coloured feathers hung in the window. The atmosphere brought me back to pre-war Paris: so did the scent of his opium. Would I like to try a pipe? I accepted. As before, the opium produced no effect whatsoever upon me, and I felt I had run the risk of getting into severe trouble for nothing but a pleasant evening’s relaxation.
It became late, but still the rain poured. Yet it was useless to wait for the torrent to abate. So Hartman and I decided to walk back to the headquarters of the BAAG. But everyone there had gone to bed. So I must find my way back to my
suburban villa. I knew it was quite a distance and was not too sure of the way. Luckily, Akë volunteered to accompany me. For quite a considerable time we walked in the dark, in mud that came over the ankles. We found ourselves close to some strange-looking hillocks that previously I had noticed in the far distance. No, this couldn’t be right! We retraced our steps in the slush and rain. We were sweating now. We walked on a couple of miles or so — then luckily came across a little Chinese policeman. He could speak no English but pretended he understood Akë and convinced us that he knew the way to the British Military Mission. Discarding his bayonet, he would accompany us. Once more we retraced our steps. We staggered into potholes. The policeman’s torch became fainter, but the rain poured ever harder. Suddenly, a row of houses: home at last! Oh, but no! We discovered we had been brought to the Free-French house of Major Vitel. A servant appeared from deep slumber — a squat Chinese girl with gold teeth who spoke English and giggled. Master was out at party. Home soon.
Since the Frenchman was such a long time in returning could we not, perhaps, telephone? Yes, there was a house farther down the mud track that possessed a telephone. By painful degrees we woke up more sentries. We cranked the telephone handle while servants, sleeping on the bare floors, woke enough to scrape their throats with appalling sounds before spitting great gobs around their fellow sleepers. No telephone operator at work. At length we decided to walk forth into the blackness again.
A feeling of appalling impotence overcame us. We were utterly lost. A young Chinese sentry explained that we were mad to wander through the night. Why not go to an hotel?
Because, said Akë, this master (pointing to me) was hoping to leave town early in the morning. But why not leave the next day?
We decided it was no use walking farther on: we were only exhausting ourselves needlessly. We must take the sentry’s advice and try to find our way back into the town. On the outskirts of the town we recognized the turning that our lorry always takes off the main road. Surely this was the right way home!
The opium must have taken more effect than we realized, for we had completely misjudged our speed and distance. The poppy may not have given us dreams but it had endowed us with incredible physical strength. We had walked perhaps ten miles.
After a few minor mistakes we at last found Hemming’s house again, and my troubles were over. However, the wretched Akë had still a long trek before him. He seemed quite confident after I had put him on the right track. Then, oh then, at last! I slowly peeled off my soaking, muddy clothes, and was able to unroll my bedding and sink luxuriously into a drugged sleep.
This expedition into the Chinese blue has thrown me back on to my own resources without even books or music. There have been days when I have had nothing but my own thoughts for company. Often my thoughts have been disturbing: my brain is a poor one, inadequately trained; I cannot take in more than a few facts or figures at a time. Perhaps insufficient interest causes me not to listen carefully to what is being said. My distracted thoughts are dissipated in many directions. Even when travelling for hours in a truck, I am incapable, hard as I try, of thinking along one particular line. I have always been unlike the majority of people. Since I have built up a life to suit my own interests, I have become more and more a specialist, remote from the world in general. Most people are interested in a greater variety of subjects, yet comparatively few make a study of the odd things that I find absorbing. This shaking-up has stirred me in a most wholesome way — even the unpleasant aspects of the trip have been beneficial: it does no one harm to get tired, to walk too much, to be either too hot or too cold, to go hungry for a few hours and use what Dr Carel called the ‘adaptive functions’. If I have become painfully conscious of my mental weaknesses and limitations, it is heartening to see how well my constitution stands up to these tests.
In my companions, all the time, I have been most fortunate. I have learnt a deal about good behaviour. Although concessions are made all the while to me by Leo and the others, and instinctively I feel I am not really of their company, yet I am critical of them when I know they would be charitable towards me. The tolerance shown in the army is remarkable. A man is seldom judged, practically never condemned. There is little backbiting and malice; and every man is impelled to behave just as well as he can to the community of which he is an organic part. Selfishness is the exception. The only man who behaved unlike the others, who showed up poorly by contrast, was suffering from thyroid trouble, a hospital case of toxic poisoning which caused the mind to react in an unnatural way.
I have not flinched at some of the rough passages, and have enjoyed the idea of seeming to be ‘a sport’, yet secretly have clung to my selfish civilian interests. I have not renounced my home, and have known that soon, God willing, I shall be able to return to the life that suits me and to which I am accustomed. (Perhaps if I had given up my freedom, once and for all, it would have made some of the delays and setbacks easier for me.) There have been many times when I have wished that I could face possible disaster with the same cheerfulness as others. I have felt physically fitter than when I lived in the big cities; but, perhaps as a result of six months’ hard travel, I have recently become rather morbid and introspective.
Chungking
Returning to the same house in Chungking I vacated aeons of time ago, everything looks so much more luxurious. My standards of comfort have changed. Attuned to such poverty, to find a few unexpected, forgotten treasures in my bag left behind — a half-filled cigarette tin, a pot of shaving cream and a fresh shirt — this is a Croesus hoard!
THE GENERALISSIMO AND SOME MINISTERS
I was awakened at dawn by the telephone. ‘This is the last day of the session at which all the provincial governors and Cabinet ministers are meeting. Could you come to the Parliament building by 7 o’clock to take photographs of the great occasion?’
Tremendous heat: little Professor Chi, sweating from head to foot, was waiting by the roadside for me. The sun was already merciless but Dr Chi kept mopping himself, and like the rabbit in Alice muttered repeatedly, ‘Oh dear, we’re late. The ministers are arriving, the ministers are arriving.’
Armed with blue flashes, we went through the portals of the Parliament building, only to be stopped at the top of a flight of stairs by a young soldier who demanded to see our military permits. Dr Kung, the Finance Minister, arrived at this moment and said we could come in with him. But the soldier was adamant. An altercation ensued. Dr Kung threw his arms in the air. Professor Chi mopped himself anew, and invited me to ‘Come and have a little rest’. I had learnt before that this means that somewhere there is a serious hitch. Dr Chi kept muttering under his breath, ‘There’s the Minister of the Interior — oh dear! there’s the Minister of Education — Agriculture.’
The written permit arrived simultaneously with the ringing of a bell as everyone went into session. During the proceedings I prowled around clicking my camera, but it was during the morning’s interval that I had my best opportunity to photograph the ministers and heads of Yunnan. It would be impossible to take an uninteresting picture of some of these old men with their long, straggling beards, fingers like cheese sticks and slenderly draped gowns.
Suddenly, the stamping of soldiers’ feet and snapping of bayonets presaged the arrival of the Generalissimo. Wearing a topi and dark glasses, he walked slowly up the staircase. Off came the topi, off the dark glasses. He acknowledged the deferential nods of a few stragglers. He looked clean, well chiselled with high cheek bones and well pressed; perhaps most remarkable, he looked extremely cool. He is short of stature, with bright, furtive eyes, and his complexion is of a suety texture: his pate as carefully shaved as his chin. Unfortunately, he was followed by a rabble of tough-looking men in uniform. Some of these thugs gestured with wild flapping arms and impatient grimaces for the sentries, and others standing by, to move away. This menacing pantomime robbed the Generalissimo of much of his innate dignity.
Lady S. is extraordinarily frank and direct. She
thought my drawing far too flattering. ‘I know what I look like all right. My son has a friend who asked: “Can’t you middle-aged women realize that when you look down with your head thrust in like that, you go all crumply under the chin?” But, my heavens,’ she said, ‘why regret lost youth? What a lot life teaches us all the time if we’re living any sort of a life at all. All that must show itself in ourselves: we must be improving all the time!’ Lady S. is a great companion to her husband. Last night there was a long discussion about whether a star keeps pace with the progress of the moon across the sky at night. ‘Surely that star jiggles along in the same ratio to the moon?’ asked Lady S. ‘No, the moon jiggles along on its own.’ ‘Horace, do two pieces of ice last longer in a glass of water than one?’ ‘Yes, they keep each other cool.’ Lady S. couldn’t understand, but side-tracked the argument by admitting, ‘I do see that one large lump lasts longer than two smaller ones.’
