Profiles from China | Page 6

he may mislead?the oracle, and the hopes of the enquirer come?to naught.
China?of?the?Tourists
Reflections in a Ricksha
This ricksha is more comfortable than some.?The springs are not broken, and the seat is covered
with a white cloth.?Also the runner is young and sturdy, and his legs flash
pleasantly.?I am not ill at ease.
The runner interests me.?Between the shafts he trots easily and familiarly, lifting
his knees prettily and holding his shoulders?steady.?His hips are lean and narrow as a filly's; his calves
might have posed for Praxiteles.?He is a modern, I perceive, for he wears no queue.?Above a rounded neck rises a shock of hair the shade
of dusty coal. Each hair is stiff and erect as a?brush bristle. There are lice in them no doubt--?but then perhaps we of the West are too squeamish?in details of this minor sort.?What interests me chiefly is the back of his ears. Not
that they are extraordinary as ears; it is their?very normality that touches me. I find them?smaller than those of a horse, but undoubtedly?near of kin.
There is no denying the truth of evolution;?Yet as a beast of burden man is distinctly inferior.
It is odd.?At home I am a democrat. A republic, a true republic,
seems not improbable, a fighting dream.?Yet beholding the back of the ears of a trotting man
I perceive it to be impossible--the millennium?another million years away.?I grow insufferably superior and Anglo-Saxon.?I am sorry, but what would you??One is what one is.
Hankow
The Camels
Whence do you come, and whither make return, you
silent padding beasts??Over the mountain passes; through the Great Wall; to
Kalgan--and beyond, whither?...
Here in the city you are alien, even as I am alien.?Your sidling jaw, your pendulous neck--incredible--and
that slow smile about your eyes and lip,?these are not of this land.?About you some far sense of mystery, some tawny
charm, hangs ever.?Silently, with the dignity of the desert, your caravans
move among the hurrying hordes, remote and?slowly smiling.
But whence are you, and whither do you make return??Over the mountain passes; through the Great Wall; to
Kalgan--and beyond, whither?...
Peking
The Connoisseur: An American
He is not an old man, but he is lonely.?He who was born in the clash of a western city dwells
here, in this silent courtyard, alone.?Seven servants he has, seven men-servants. They
move about quietly and their slippered feet make?no sound. Behind their almond eyes move green,?sidelong shadows, and their limber hands are?never still.?In his house the riches of the Orient are gathered.?Ivory he has, carved in a thousand quaint, enticing
shapes--pleasant to the hand, smooth with the?caressing of many fingers.?And jade is there, dark green and milky white, with
amber from Korea and strange gems--beryl,?chrysoprase, jasper, sardonyx....?His lacquered shelves hold priceless pottery--peachblow
and cinnabar and silver grey--pottery?glazed like the new moon, fired how long ago?for a moon-pale princess 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