Chapter XV

“THE PEACE OF THE EAST.”

ANTUNG CITY.

Within the limit of five degrees the earth offers no stranger contrasts than those of Japan, Korea, and China. The fairy who watched over the birth of Japan was of dainty form; Korea had a slut for godmother, and China an opulent dame. Japan is a land for the poet who sings in dithyrambics; Korea calls for the scavenger; while China would gladden the eye of the farmer. But the contrast goes deeper than the soil. The people have differences more manifest. In Japan is a race new-born--a brave, hardy, energetic race, with the assurance and vanity of untried youth inspired with a boundless patriotism. Koreans walk their dung heaps in winding sheets like corpses looking for an undertaker. Life has gone out of them, and nothing remains save dirt and decay. Cross the Yalu and you have journeyed on the magic carpet so wonderful is the change. Here is a fine, healthy, vigorous people, instead of a moribund; here industry takes the seat of lethargy; here is pride of race which awaits only the awakening voice of patriotism.

Strangers in all countries are apt to form hasty conclusions, and to pronounce very decided opinions on insecure basis. But war is a good crucible in which to sift all character. Its terrors and surprises; its privations and sacrifices bring into instant and bold relief the qualities of a people. You have not to grope for them in metaphysical darkness. They stand out before you by day in a pillar of cloud, and by night in a pillar of fire. The people of Manchuria, whether Manchu or Chinese, have proved themselves men. They are the victims of war who have not the satisfaction of shouldering a rifle; yet they stood firm and received the victor without cringing and the vanquished without insult.

When I rode into Antung two days after the passage of the Yalu the town had a holiday aspect. The streets were filled with people, above whose bare heads and black pigtails towered posts that looked like glorified Venetian masts. They are flat boards, thirty feet high, stained a dull black and covered with ideographs in relief. Near the top is a disc of tin that catches the rays of the sun and shines with the fierce light of the dragon’s eye. The ideographs are in gold, and live and talk as only Chinese letters live and talk among all the written characters of the world. Standing in rows a few paces from the doors these glittering boards proclaim the merits of Wang Fungtsao’s merchandise and Yuan Siekai’s skill as a builder of Pekin carts; but to the stranger they are more than sign posts; they are monuments the brilliance and magnificence of which are stars in the drab dulness of a Chinese town.

What brought the citizens into the streets? With eager outstretched faces they lined the high footway; their blue cotton garments and felt shoes filled the road, and on every intelligent yellow face was a look of earnest anticipation. Yet not a sound came from them. The mob divided, and there appeared the dark blue of Japanese soldiers. They marched with rifles shouldered, and their immobile faces actually betrayed excitement. The crowd opened, and behold a long dark line of men walking in couples--men of a different race, fair men with blue eyes and blonde moustache, wearing caps of Astrakan and dyed sheepskin. They had the erect, easy carriage of soldiers, and each man’s earth-stained face wore the impress of his mood. The glance of the youth with the fierce moustache wandered over the crowd with haughty disdain; the man with the scar on his brow had his eyes in infinite space--he was seeing visions of vengeance--the comrade near him scowled under a blood-stained sheepskin; while the veteran behind accepted the fortune of war with easy indifference. A soldier in the hands of his enemies arouses a great compassion. He is the embodiment of helplessness and despair, to whom his bitterest foe will render aid and comfort. But a band of prisoners excite many emotions. They have the semblance of strength and purpose strangely out of keeping with the idea of captivity. One wonders how they allowed themselves to be taken, and if they will not arise and burst their bonds. I would like to know what thoughts were passing through the minds of the Japanese soldiers who looked on. They must have been the thoughts of men vowed to death or victory, for every soldier of the Mikado is nurtured on the traditions of the Samurai, who counts life nothing if the cause be lost. The Chinese watched with eager curiosity the march of their late masters under a foreign guard. He does not love the Russian who stole his country, but with the Chinaman love of self is stronger than love of country; he is before all else an individualist, and knows not what a day may bring forth--it may be a Siberian guard or a Japanese procession. He prudently waits upon events which are his true master.

“The Peace of the East”--that is the literal meaning of Antung--was one of the immediate causes of the war. In accordance with commercial treaties concluded between China on the one part and Japan and the United States on the other, it was a treaty port open to foreign trade. Russia had another destiny in view for Antung, but the new diplomacy which ratifies and signs treaties with an electric pen that reaches on the instant across the world, proved too quick for the fate ordained in St. Petersburg, and “The Peace of the East” is still nominally an open port. An American Consul had been appointed, and was reported to be on his way hither. Antung is situated on the right bank of the Yalu, about twenty miles from its mouth, in the province of Feng-t’ien. The approaches and estuary are not charted, but are well known to the masters of coasting vessels who make occasional visits in the Autumn to purchase raw silk and cocoons. Navigation is rendered difficult by shoals and sandbanks, yet junks can ascend the river for fifty miles, and the Japanese gunboats that bombarded the Russian position North-west of Antung have shown that a channel may be found for steamers of deeper draft than was generally supposed. A large number of junks are employed in the commerce of Antung which is considerable, the imports consisting of nankeens, oil, iron, and provisions; while the exports are timber, planks, bean-cake--an excellent horse feed--liquorice, and “wild” silk.

Measured by our own standards Antung is not clean. The smells that rise up from unexpected places and assault you are occasionally alarming; dust and dirt affront you on all sides; and the people are unwashed. Yet compared with most Chinese cities, Antung is a Dutch kitchen, and to step from Korea into Manchuria is to step out of a noisome swamp into a clear cool stream. The streets are fairly wide and the footpath, where it exists, is raised two or three feet above the road. The houses are one storied and are built of dark stone roofed with heavy tiles. At its best the town has a mean and dingy aspect, and does not improve on closer acquaintance. When the Japanese entered, the streets looked like rows of poor shops with the shutters up, for Chinese doors are shutters, as you discover when in answer to knock and cry of “Kaimeni” the side of a house begins to come away in sections. Those of us who kept up with the advance were quartered upon a wealthy merchant at whose door stood one of the glorified sign posts. His house is a type of all well-to-do houses in Manchuria. On each side of the entrance hall is a large and lofty room with shelves along the walls, and at one end a broad platform covered with straw matting. These are the shops or warehouses. The shelves are empty, for everything has been removed and hidden until confidence has been restored by the proclamations which the Japanese make haste to post upon the walls calling upon the people to resume their ordinary pursuits and assuring them of protection to life and property. Between these two apartments the entrance hall leads direct into a courtyard, on one side of which are stables and piggeries, and on the other a row of small rooms used as dwellings. These rooms also have mat covered platforms which serve the purpose of beds and lounges and are lighted by windows of oil paper attached to moveable wooden frames. The floors are of beaten earth and the furniture consists of a table, a chair, one or two stools and a wooden bench. The ceiling has a picture paper and the blackened walls show traces of a paper of geometric design. Everything about the place is solid and substantial after the manner of things Chinese, but dirt and squalor prevail.

The Manchus having given the dynasty to the Empire claim the privilege of conquerors. They pay no taxes; the examinations that open the door to preferment are made easy for them; they draw pay and rations from the government and do no work. With such incentives, it is not surprising to find them indolent, ignorant and self-satisfied. They have lost all manly qualities except pride of race. A Manchu may condescend to marry a Chinese woman; but a Chinaman is not permitted to marry a Manchu woman though the Empress Dowager has issued an edict recommending such marriages. Between the Chinese, who call themselves Min-jen or civilians, and the Bannermen or Ch’i-jen, it is hard to detect any difference in dress or appearance. The Manchu women dress their hair differently and do not bind the feet of their daughters; although in order to imitate the tottering gait of their Chinese sisters they wear shoes with thick soles curved inward from toe to heel. But the Manchus are only a very small part of the population of Antung; their number throughout the Empire probably does not exceed three millions. It is the industrious Chinese or Min-jen who make the trade and commerce of this treaty port.

The Japanese troops had not been twenty-four hours in the town before it began to put off its impoverished look. Small and mysterious packages appeared on shelves that had gaped in emptiness: bean cake and chopped straw were dragged out from dark corners: horses and mules and Pekin carts walked out of space: and that which seemed a famine-stricken and denuded city became a mart. The change was gradual, for the Chinese are suspicious and demanded proof of the good intentions of the new invaders. The vendor of sweet cakes and eggs and a vile concoction of alcohol and fusil oil was the first to hazard his wares, and the result must have been satisfactory, since the cashier presently took his seat at the desk in the warehouse, or large store, and goods were exchanged for military notes issued by the Japanese. These notes, by the way, were at first accepted with great reluctance, and at a discount of ten per cent., which made the purchaser anxious to avoid them: but confidence was soon restored and they were accepted at face value, though the cost of everything which was previously measured by the Mexican or silver dollar was fixed by the Japanese yen: in other words prices rose fifty per cent.

When you leave the dingy heart of the town and approach the river you realise that Antung is a place of considerable importance. The Yalu at this point is about a mile wide and the river front is crowded with junks--those square-built square-rigged boats that swarm over the Yellow Sea and are capable of sailing one hundred miles in six hours or in sixty. Many are engaged in trade with Yongampo, the head quarters of the Russian Far Eastern Timber and Mining Company, on the other side of the Yalu, while others run between Manchuria and Chinese and Japanese ports. In the creeks are more junks building or being repaired, and on the banks are piles of timber and bean cake awaiting shipment. A busy and picturesque scene the river presents with its tangle of brown sails; its blue-gowned sailors; and its wooden ships with all their strength and grace of line.

After two nights I quitted the house of the merchant to make my abode in a temple on the outskirts of the town. The temple stands near the foot of a green hill, and is one of the richest in the Empire. Before its walls stretches a broad open space, in the centre of which is a stone building--an open-air theatre, with a beautiful roof decorated with dragons and bells that breathe sweet melodies to the gentle breeze. The theatre used for religious celebrations was closed. The outer wall of the temple is of stone, with a broad band of pink wash along the middle, and you reach the outer court through a circular gate. Flights of stone steps lead to a stone balcony, from which gates give access to smaller courtyards, on each side of which are spacious rooms that appear to have no sacerdotal use, and are probably the apartments of the priests. The temple proper forms the outer wall of the square, and is separated into several shrines, each of which has its particular deity and images. The interiors of these shrines resemble Roman Catholic chapels in their elaborate decoration, their lamps and candles and their graven images. This temple, I was told, is dedicated to Taoism, which was imported from India long before the Christian era, and numbers its votaries by millions. It is named the Temple of the River God, though all the gods and goddesses of Olmpus appear to be gathered under its roof. Here, in a shrine which the aged priest showed to me with conscious pride--an ornate and beautiful shrine--sits the god of war gorgeously apparelled, a pompous rather than terrifying figure, with full red cheeks, a straggling black beard and dark oblique eyes. In a neighbouring shrine images of goddesses, some of them carrying infants that might have been modelled from Italian masters. The priest exhibited these treasures with the languid air of one who took pity on the ignorant Western devil who had invaded these sacred precincts. He was a courteous old gentleman, wrapped up in that impenetrable conceit which protects China against the influence of the West.

I pitched my tent in the outer court, and woke every morning to a new admiration of the beauty and simplicity of the roof of the temple. It was a source of unending delight to the eye. The form, I am sure, is taken from the tent--that square tent of the nomad--for it falls in simple and graceful lines from the ridge pole, and is picked up at the corners as a dainty maid holds her skirts. Tiny dragons and devils sit upon the ribs and grin down from the eaves: they look as if they had just alighted and were about to take flight again. And the colour is splendid, with rich greys and deep browns above a border of crimson and gold.

One morning I was aroused by the droning of pipes, the clashing of cymbals, and the beating of a drum. Looking out of my tent I saw three men in the outer court whose poor dress and unwashed faces led me to believe that they were itinerent musicians, of whom it was desirable to be rid by the present of a few cash. They were, however, the temple minstrels, and this was a feast day, for trooping through the gates came crowds of citizens of Antung, all clean and well dressed for the occasion. Some of them bore gifts of money: others of kind, such as pigs and wheat: but the majority were content with joss sticks. Entering the temple in small parties they spread carpets before the images and performed the rites of genuflection and raising of hands, precisely like the action of the Roman Catholic priest at the altar. Lighting their joss sticks they placed them in a box before the shrine and left them to pour incense of smoke, while some minor priest beat the tom-tom and clashed the cymbals to call the attention of the god to this act of worship. In the little courtyard before the shrine stood a stone lamp--a pillar of stone with a cavity on the top. To this lamp were attached long strings of crackers that produced much smoke and noise to the satisfaction of the multitude. The scene and the ceremony were familiar rather than strange, and carried my mind to the house on the hill where the Danish Lutheran missionary--the Rev. J. Vyff--preaches against an idolatry in which he recognises many points of close resemblance with the religions of the West.