Profiles from China | Page 7

of the East, whose very

name is dust!
In his vaults are incredible textures and colors that
vibrate like struck jade.
Stiff with gold brocade they are, or soft as the coat of
a fawn--these sacred robes of a long dead priest,
silks of a
gold-skinned courtesan, embroideries of
a lost throne.
When he
unfolds them the shimmering heaps are like
living opals, burning and moving darkly with the
warm breath of
beauty.

And other priceless things the collector has, so that
in many days he could not look upon them all.
Every morning his
seven men-servants dress him, and
every evening they undress him. Behind their
almond eyes move
green sidelong shadows.
In this silent courtyard the collector lives.

He is not an old man but he is lonely.
Peking
Sunday in the British Empire: Hong Kong
In the aisle of the cathedral it lies, an army rifle of
the latest type.
It is laid on the black and white mosaic, between the
carved oaken pews and the strip of brown carpet
in the aisle.
A
crimson light from the stained-glass window yonder
glints on the blue steel of its barrel, and the
khaki of its shoulder-strap
blends with the brown
of the carpet.
The stiff backs of its owner and a hundred like him
are very still.
The vested choir chants prettily.
Then the bishop
speaks:
"O God, who art the author of peace and lover of
concord,... defend us thy humble servants
in all assaults of our
enemies."
"Amen!" say the owners of the khaki backs.
The light has shifted a little. On the blue steel barrel
of the rifle the glint is turquoise now.
That will be from the robe of
the shepherd in the window
yonder, He of the quiet eyes....

Hong Kong
On the Canton River Boat
Up and down, up and down, paces the sentry.
He is dressed in a
uniform of khaki and his socks are
green. Over his shoulder is slung a rifle, and
from his belt hang a
pistol and cartridge pouch.
He is, I think, Malay and Chinese mixed.
Behind him the rocky islands, hazed in blue, the yellow
sun-drenched water, the tropic shore, pass as a
background in a dream.

He only is sweltering reality.
Yet he is here to guard against a
nightmare, an
anachronism, something that I cannot grasp.
He is guarding me from
pirates.
Piracy! The very name is fantastic in my ears, colored
like a toucan in the zoo.
And yet the ordinance is clear: "Four armed
guards,
strong metal grills behind the bridge, the engine-room
enclosed--in
case of piracy."
The socks of the sentry are green.
Up and down, up and down he
paces, between the
bridge and the first of the life-boats.
In my deck chair I grow restless.
Am I then so far removed from life, so wrapped in
cotton wool, so deep-sunk in the soft lap of civilization, that I cannot
feel the cold splash of truth?
It is a disquieting thought--for certainly
piracy seems

as fantastic as ever.
The socks of the sentry annoy me. They are too
green for so hot a day.
And his shoes squeak.
I should feel much
cooler if he wouldn't pace so.
Piracy!
Somewhere on the River
The Altar of Heaven
Beneath the leaning, rain-washed sky this great white
circle--beautiful!
In three white terraces the circle lies, piled one on
one toward Heaven. And on each terrace the
white balustrade climbs
in aspiring marble, etched
in cloud.
And Heaven is very near.
For
this is worship native as the air, wide as the
wind, and poignant as the rain,
Pure aspiration, the eternal dream.
Beneath the leaning sky this great white circle!
Peking
The Chair Ride
The coolies lift and strain;
My chair creaks rhythmically.
It is not
yet morning and the live darkness pushes
about us, a greedy darkness that has swallowed
even the stars.
In all
the world there is left only my chair, with the
tiny horn lantern before it.
There are also, it is true, the undersides of
trees in

the lantern-light and the stony path that flows
past ceaselessly.
But
these things flit and change.
Only I and the chair and the darkness are
permanent.
We have been moving so since time was in the
womb.
The seat of my chair is of wicker.
It is not unlike an invalid chair, and
I, in it, am swaddled
like an invalid, wrapped in layer on layer
of coddling wool.
But
there are no wheels to my chair. I ride on the
steady feet of four queued coolies.
The tramp of their lifted shoes is
the rhythm of being,
throbbing in me as my own heart throbs.
Save for their feet the bearers are silent. They move
softly through the live darkness. But now and
again I am shifted
skilfully from one shoulder to
the other.
The breath of the coolies is short.
They strain, and in spite of the cold
I know they are
sweating.
It is wicked of course!
My five dollars ought not to buy
life.
But it is all they understand;
And even I am not precisely
comfortable.
The darkness