Sir Robert Hart

by Juliet Bredon

In government business even more than in private affairs the great danger always is what the wise old Chicago pork-packer described as "the weak mouths that let slip what they ought to retain." Indiscreet talk has upset many a politician's apple-cart—even the legitimate bumps on the road are not such serious obstacles. It almost spoiled the Margary affair, it threatened the French Treaty no less seriously. Again and again the two parties attempted to come to an agreement over the troublesome boundary question; again and again they failed. And why? Simply because the vexatious gossip that is the curse of small communities interfered. And then to add to the existing complications a Customs vessel, the Fei Hoo, was seized by the French as she was landing stores for a lighthouse in Formosa. They would not let her go, saying she had landed letters as well as stores. Perhaps she did—no one can say—but contraband mail on board or not, she had important duties to perform. All the lighthouses along that coast depended on her for supplies, could not, in fact, function without her, and all vessels of every nationality in China seas depended on those lights, so her detention was worse than aggravating.

The I.G. explained this to Monsieur Patenotre and urged him to free her. "Ça, c'est l'affaire de l'amiral," was the answer, and the Admiral, when communicated with, refused to do anything. With many regrets Monsieur Patenotre told the I.G. this, adding: "You'd better go to Paris." He probably little thought that his advice would be taken au pied de la lettre, but within an incredibly short time the barren negotiations at Shanghai were abandoned, and the I.G. had telegraphed at length explaining the whole position to his Resident Secretary in London and directing him to go to Paris, see M. Jules Ferry, then Premier and Minister for Foreign Affairs, and try to settle something about the Fei Hoo there. M. Ferry received him very cordially, said he would be interested in hearing anything such an authority as Sir Robert Hart might have to say, but, all civilities aside, the matter rested with the Admiralty, and he would be obliged to refer it to them.

Next day the Secretary, a certain Mr. Campbell, went again for his answer and found it unfavourable, for the Admiralty was still in that state of mind which we call firm when it occurs in ourselves, obstinate when it occurs in others. M. Ferry personally was distressed over the refusal. But what could he do beyond asking Mr. Campbell politely if there was any other matter about which he would like to speak? Here was an opportunity the I.G. had luckily foreseen—and prepared to meet. Thanks to his foresight, Mr. Campbell was able to take out of his pocket several long and carefully worded telegrams giving a résumé of the situation. They suggested a workable compromise; it was adopted, and peace pourparlers began once more. The I.G.'s one stipulation on entering upon them was that they should be kept absolutely secret. And this time they were. Except Prince Ching and one Tsungli Yamên Minister, nobody knew, nobody even guessed, that anything unusual was even "on the carpet," as the French say; and in order to deepen the impression that no political anxieties were darkening the horizon, Robert Hart embarked in private theatricals—a thing he had never done before, or since—and played Pillicoddy.

Alas, the path of treaties never did run smooth! When arrangements were just on the point of being concluded the Court suddenly desired to retract some of their promises, thinking too much had been given away. This was a cruel blow to the I.G., who well knew that the French would never agree to the proposed changes and that the painstaking work of weeks would topple over like a house of cards. As for China's position in case the Treaty fell through, the less said about that the better.

Notwithstanding, the I.G. did speak of it, and forcibly, to Yamên Ministers, who did not listen—not because they would not, but because they dared not for fear of exceeding their powers and bringing Imperial censure on their own heads. What the I.G. must do, said they, was to send a telegram immediately to Paris and say the Treaty could not be signed as it was. He promised to do this—what else could he do?—and went home from the Yamên disheartened, discouraged, and in no mood for work.

[Illustration: STABLES OF SIR ROBERT HART IN THE RAINY SEASON.]

A weaker man would have "gloomed" openly; he did nothing more despairing than stroll into the office of one of his secretaries and have some talk about indifferent matters. None the less it was an unusual thing for him to do, as, whenever they had business together, his secretaries came to him, and he must have been pushed to it by one of those mysterious impulses that sometimes shape men's destinies. Was it the same strange impulse that sent him over to the bookcase in the corner of the room, that made him pick out, at random, and without thinking what he was doing, a volume of the Chinese classics, and when he opened it carelessly made his eye light on the sentence "Kung Kwei Yih Kwei,"—literally, the "work wants another basket"? (The phrase is part of one of Confucius' sayings.) "If a man wants to build a hill so high," says the Sage, "he must not refuse it the last basketful of earth."

Here was a direct answer to the I.G.'s own perplexity. Perhaps one more effort and his work, too, might be successful. At any rate he would keep back the fatal telegram for a day.

Next morning he went to the Yamên again. The first thing the Minister said to him was, "Have you sent that telegram?" And they were all anxiety till they had his reply, which, strange to say, they received with profound sighs of relief, for once again the Court had changed their minds—had come to see the folly of risking a break in the negotiations—and the Ministers, who feared the I.G. had already taken the step they had insisted on so firmly the day before, were prodigiously relieved to find nothing definite had been done. Then, when he told them the reason, how Confucius had guided China from his grave, they were still more deeply impressed.

The telegram that the I.G. did send that morning to his London agent was "Sign the Treaty. But don't sign the 1st of April," he added, for they were then in the last days of March. The sudden relief from anxiety made him want a little joke—but he did not want it in the Treaty. Unfortunately nobody appreciated the sally. His Resident Secretary solemnly wrote on the telegram when he handed it to the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, "Don't sign on the 1st of April—parce que c'est un jour néfasfe—because it is an unlucky day." Either as a Scotchman he deplored the unseemly frivolity, or he thought the French could not appreciate a poisson d'Avril, and so racked his brains for a serious reason to justify the I.G.'s objection.