No Chinese vehicle is allowed in the Russian quarter, so we were obliged to take a droshky to the Chinese town, about a half mile distant, where our belongings were transferred to the sleigh, which was the only possible vehicle for crossing the open country. It was of a most primitive description, a sort of raft on runners, with a little straw on it covered with a rug. Our luggage was somewhat insecurely corded on, and we seated ourselves in the midst of it, only too soon to become acutely aware of the extraordinary number of corners which it possessed. Between the shafts, which consisted of two sapling birches denuded of their branches, was a shaggy pony, and another little pony ran alongside to give what further assistance he could, both animals having a miscellaneous harness of bits of old cord, which looked incapable of enduring any strain, though the event proved quite the contrary. We passed through the old town, which was gay with New Year decorations, the doors all bright with tutelary deities, freshly pasted up. Already the streets were filled with traffic, heavily-laden waggons of corn drawn by teams varying from four to eight, stacks of straw on rafts, fitted with runners similar to those of the one we were on, and all the various equipages likely to be found in such a nondescript place. The drollest of all was a little wooden house on runners, with a tall chimney, which we supposed to be on its way to some other permanent position. This, however, proved to be the bus plying daily between Kharbin and Hulan, the place of our destination. It contained eleven passengers inside, and a stove. Outside was a heap of bedding on a wooden box tied on a narrow ledge at the back, upon which lounged another passenger.
It was desperately cold and almost impossible to keep one’s extremities warm, but the Chinese cope successfully with this difficulty. Nearly every one wears ear muffs (some of them beautifully embroidered and fur-lined), or big turned-up collars as high as their heads, or caps coming over the ears, and at the other extremity large felt boots. Passing through the busy town we plunged down into the river-bed of the Sungari, a most perilous descent, as the sledges slither away and sometimes turn completely round, unless the driver dexterously contrives to push them into a convenient rut. We passed one heavy cart that had turned completely on to its side, while yet another was being dug out of a rut with a pickaxe. The ponies show their mettle, and though they have the worst of tempers, and not infrequently give a sudden bite to the passers-by, they work with a will to drag their often too heavy loads over the difficult ground. We passed the landing-stage, whence in summer the steamers ply daily up to Hulan.
After struggling up the farther bank we passed over a bumpy plain for several hours, with various incidents to mark the road. Our umbrellas soon disappeared, then a collision sent a basket flying. Sometimes we were in imminent peril as some passing vehicle would skid violently; once I thought escape was impossible, as a large cart crashed into our side, missing my arm by a hair’s-breadth, but we strove—I hope not unsuccessfully—to imitate the Chinese imperturbability of appearance. During one of our halts for repairs we were overtaken by the above-mentioned bus, and, behold! there was the Chinaman still on the back of it, trying to take a nap. We passed and repassed the vehicle, and he was always in the act of trying to sleep in some different attitude, but apparently never succeeding—the only Chinaman I have ever met who failed to sleep in any attitude whatever!
These plains are very fertile, and as soon as spring comes there is a steady stream of workers to be seen arriving from China proper, especially from the province of Shantung, to which they return when the harvest is ended. Many come to accumulate enough money during eight or nine years to buy land and bring their families up to live here. In fact we met some emigrants already arriving with all their scanty possessions. The Chinese Government is now waking up to the importance of colonisation on the borders of the empire, in order to check the sure and steady pressure of the Russians from without.
As we approached Hulan we came to another river to be crossed, but not nearly so large a one as the Sungari. Few foreigners come to such an out-of-the-way corner of the empire, so people came hurrying out to see us, calling to one another, “Come and see the shaggy women!” “These shaggy women are tip-top!” The expression “shaggy” seems to have been first applied to the Russians, who wear their hair somewhat loose and long, but it is now the common designation for foreigners of all nationalities.
We travelled slowly, though occasionally our little ponies would break into a trot; then the driver would leap into the air, fold his legs beneath him and alight seated cross-legged on the cart, with a solid thud, like some gigantic frog. Hulan is quite a Chinese town, and indeed Manchuria is rapidly becoming populated with the Chinese, for whom its fertile plains offer an excellent home. The old Manchu towns are in a decadent condition, and can only hope for a fresh lease of life by new blood being introduced from the south. No wonder the Japanese cast covetous eyes on the land where crops produce an increase of 100 per cent. The crops are mainly wheat and beans, both of which are being largely exported to Britain. Great quantities of oil are obtained from the beans, and the refuse is made into large flat cakes, nearly as big as cart wheels, which form excellent fuel. The price of beans in the north is three times as great as it was a year ago, and the people in Manchuria are on the whole more prosperous than elsewhere in the Chinese Empire.
On Sunday morning we attended service in the Mission Hall, and received a warm welcome from the people, to whom we were formally presented at the conclusion of the service. The Mission is still in its infancy, but promises well, and when the medical side is started will make more rapid progress. The next day “the faithful of Hulan” sent us gifts of cakes, and asked when we were leaving, that they might speed us on our way. We left too early, however, to go and thank them in person, as we had a four hours’ sleigh ride in order to catch the express at Kharbin, which only goes twice a week direct to Moukden. Unfortunately we had mistaken the day, and we doubly regretted that we had not waited to return the courtesies shown to us.
The first section of the railway line running southwards is still in the hands of Russia, and one’s attention is continually arrested by the large numbers of soldiers who are kept all along the line to guard it. Kwan-cheng-tze is the terminus of the Russian line: it is not quite half-way from Kharbin to Moukden. The Japanese call their station at Kwan-cheng-tze Changchun, which is rather puzzling to the traveller who is unaware that the place boasts two names. All passengers have to change trains here.
We had a leisurely journey across the plains, and arrived at Kwan-cheng-tze about 8.30, our halting-place for the night. It boasts a brand new Japanese hotel just opposite the station, which was radiantly clean and fresh, such a contrast to the Russian one at Kharbin. There was no lack of attention, for the Chinese boys flew to do our bidding, and fetched us tea unbidden. In the morning we started at 8.30 on the Japanese section of the line. The cars are long open corridor ones, and kept admirably clean, but one misses the privacy so dear to the Englishman. All day long we slowly wended our way southward, stopping at many stations of a mushroom growth: it requires no imagination to fancy yourself back in Europe as far as the houses are concerned, but the people are quite out of keeping with them. The train had a sonorous bell attached to the engine, absolutely like that of a church, which heralded our approach to the stations. At almost every station there is a little house where hot water is to be obtained; the moment the train stops out dash numbers of Chinese, carrying their teapots, which they get replenished. We had no need to bestir ourselves, as the conductor was most attentive and kept us well supplied. The trains always have Japanese military officials on board, who usually go only short stages, being replaced by others whenever they get out. The trains are very crowded, and in the third class they are packed like monkeys in cages: some of the carriages have three shelves one above the other, on which the passengers lie, and as they are lighted at the top by a single dim candle, at night the top man certainly has the best of it.
At 6 P.M. we steamed into Moukden punctual to the minute, and found a deafening crowd ready to lay hold of the passengers. We were greeted by a man possessing a few words of English, and able to understand where we wanted to go, so we were glad to entrust ourselves to his care. He even satisfied any curiosity we might have had as to the personal appearance of our host, whose main feature, judging from the description, was a huge moustache. The drive was thrilling, and the five miles were none too long; it was the New Year festival, and all sorts of things were to be seen in the thronged streets. Brilliant moonlight illuminated the city from above, and lanterns and fireworks lit it up intermittently from within. A short drive brought us near a thoroughly Burmese dagoba of old times, and then through a horrible iron archway of the worst type of modern times. Farther on we passed through the gloomy gateway in the big city wall, and found an almost impenetrable throng of sightseers. Our driver had no longer a chance of pointing out interesting buildings, and giving us details of his faith, &c., with which he had varied the earlier part of the drive, for he was obliged to keep up a monotonous shout of “hech! hech! hech!” only varied by what sounded like “hurry on, hurry on!” a much needed injunction to his steed. After about an hour’s drive we reached the group of Mission buildings, hospitals, schools, and dwelling-houses situated on the river bank, which is radiant with lotus blossom in the summer-time. But I must not begin describing the charms of Moukden at the end of a chapter: it demands one to itself. As the relation of Manchuria to China is but little known, it may be of interest to the reader to have the brief account which forms the beginning of the next chapter, but after this warning it is easy for those who are not interested to skip the next four pages.