Chapter 3

Time of late years had begun to move past me easily. Day elided smoothly with the night, and I had begun to accept the fact, with a subtle sort of resignation which was not unpleasant. I had been restless once. I had struggled against time. I had had desires. I had filled my days with activities which could not be encompassed by hours, but the timelessness of that city where tradition and where the past mingled indefinably with the present, where the modern phrase of politeness was an apology for disturbing one’s neighbor’s chariot, had made me broad-minded about time. I looked at my watch and found without surprise that the hour was getting on to half past eight. A middle-aged Chinese in a long black robe spoke to me—Prince Tung. He spoke in the birdlike, bell-like tones of his native tongue, every phrase perfect, every gesture a mirror of etiquette, that made my conversation with Eleanor Joyce, which was still running through my mind, seem crude and nakedly barbarous.

“You have not been lately to my poor house,” he said. “I have missed you. There are the crickets; you have not seen the crickets.”

His words brought me back to the other side of my life which touched upon China. It brought me back to a world which was shifting, enigmatic, fascinating. It was a world which was dying perhaps but one which I respected. It was a brutal world, a merciless world, but one which was inconceivably cultivated and polite, with a cultivation that rose above sordidness and disrepair and above the annoyances of the present. I admired Prince Tung intensely and was proud that he honored me with a casual friendship. Prince Tung came of a Manchu family which had been powerful at court in the days of the Empire. He had seen the Forbidden City as a boy and could describe the great days vividly. Like most of the Manchus he had been improvident with money and now he gave evidence of being very poor. He was withdrawn from politics; he spent most of his time in part of his ruined palace, near the northern gate of the city, writing poetry on scrolls with his brushes, but his tastes were catholic and foreigners amused him: If his amusement was contemptuous, his manner never showed it. He had an ingrained politeness, cultivated by a slavish childhood study of the classics.

“You are amused, my master?” I said to him.

“Yes,” said Prince Tung. “I am diverted. Your people always divert me. I say this to you because you will understand, too well perhaps for your own good.”

Prince Tung smiled and placed his delicate hands inside his sleeves.

“That young woman you were speaking to, for instance. I never can understand. Is she well-bred?”

“Yes,” I said. “Decidedly so, I think.”

“Well,” said Prince Tung. “That is very interesting. I never can understand.”

“We were talking together frankly,” I told him. “She told me I was finished.”

He did not grasp my meaning at first and I had difficulty in explaining the phrase in Chinese.

“Oh,” said Prince Tung. “At length I see. What is your honorable age? I have forgotten.”

“Thirty-four,” I said.

“Then she is very nearly right,” said Prince Tung. “You should have sons by now who are grown to men. Personally I was married at fifteen and besides I have had six concubines. My family is large and I no longer worry. You should have your birds and your walks and conversations. You should no longer worry.”

“I don’t very much,” I said.

“Very much is not adequate,” said Prince Tung. “For example, I will tell you something. Things are very bad in the city to-day. A merchant, one of my best friends, has sent several boxes for safekeeping to the Legation bank this afternoon. I shall do the same to-morrow, but I am not worried.”

“What things are very bad?” I asked. I knew he would not answer me when I asked him for he never liked a direct question.

“It is nothing,” he said. “It has been said also that certain persons who frequently concoct trouble are about. The country is being clawed again by the barbarians. It is bitter that we are living through the period of turmoil which invariably follows the conclusion of a dynasty. These times have always been uncomfortable but they will pass.”

“Are you worried about your property?” I asked.

Prince Tung smiled again. “I have never worried about my property,” he said. “There is nothing I can do.” His reply did not exasperate me as it might have a few years back.

“But you have friends, you have influence,” I said.

“Perhaps,” said Prince Tung. “Until the time arises. One can never tell.”

Then I heard Major Best calling me. His voice was clipped and matter-of-fact and reassuring.

“I say, Nelson,” he called. “Are you ready now?”

The last red glow of the sunset was on the street outside. The ricksha lamps were lighted. Major Best laid his hand on my arm. I felt his fingers on the sleeve of my coat, closing on my arm, more tightly than was necessary.

“I say,” said Best. “Did that Prince Tung Johnny say anything to you?”

“He said things were bad in the city,” I answered. “Why?”

I heard the Major draw in a deep breath and he dropped my arm.

“I saw a man in the street to-day,” he said. “I can tell a Chinese face in a crowd. He saw me too. I hope he didn’t know I knew him.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because my life wouldn’t be worth tuppence,” said Major Best. “Come. We’ve time for a spot of whiskey before dinner.”

I looked at him, not particularly startled, for one deals in exaggerations so often that they do not mean much. I have heard plenty of people say that their lives would not be worth tuppence if they did not arrive in time at the Jones’ party. I looked at Jameson Best and I could not see his face clearly. Then I remembered that Peking is probably the safest city in the world.