From the Arctic Ocean to the Yellow Sea

by Julius M. Price

A description of one “room” in these inns will suffice for all, as the difference was simply in the amount of dirt about them. The windows—if the tissue-paper-covered apertures in the walls can be so called—usually stretch the whole width of the room, and beyond preventing the full light of day from coming in, were of no earthly use as a rule, for the paper was generally hanging in shreds; so there was no privacy to be obtained. Along one side also was the kang, or raised platform, covered with matting, which serves as a sleeping-place, and under which, in winter, is lighted a fire. A small table is placed on the kang, round which visitors squat, tailor-fashion, to take their meals. There was seldom any other furniture in the place.

With regard to the food in these inns, for those whose stomachs are equal to Chinese cooking there is plenty of choice, and the stuff they give you is plentiful and cheap at the price. I tried one meal, but the experiment made me so ill for several days after, that I never desired to repeat it. Till I had tasted Chinese cooking I had fondly imagined that I had a “gem” of a digestion, and could eat almost anything. I was, however, undeceived in North China. The mere recollection of that awful, interminable dinner, washed down with a vile, lukewarm concoction, which the Cossacks called “Chinese vodka,” and which had a taste like what I imagine would be tepid methylated spirits, makes me shudder even now to think of.

A “ROOM” IN A CHINESE INN.

One look at the interior of our room decided me to sleep in my mule-litter out in the yard, which, although it was crowded with all sorts of vehicles and people, would be preferable to voluntarily surrendering myself to the enemy, as I knew would be the case if I slept on the dirty kang; and although my cramped bed was anything but luxurious, owing to the fact that my legs, from the knees downwards, protruded out into the cold night air, still, somehow I managed to sleep as soundly as usual, and did not wake up till I was disturbed in the early morning with the noise and bustle occasioned by the departure of some of the many travellers who had stopped at the place over-night. Sleep after this was impossible, so there was nothing for it but to get out and while away the time as best I could with my sketch-book till we were ready to start, after a makeshift sort of breakfast.

By the way, a rather amusing incident occurred one morning at one of these inns. I was busy repacking my litter, when Nicolaieff came up and told me, to my no little surprise, that an English gentleman and lady had arrived during the night, and pointed out to me an individual who was standing in a doorway close by as the Angliski Gospodin in question. This was quite an event for me, after not having seen any English people for so long, so to go up and ascertain whether he really did hail from the old country was naturally the impulse of the moment. His surprise at meeting an Englishman in such an out-of-the-way place was equal to mine at meeting him, for he had taken me for one of the Cossacks in charge of the mail, he told me laughingly. I then learnt he was travelling through with his wife to visit some missionary friends in North China, and intended spending the summer there. I was then introduced to the lady, who came out at that moment, on hearing English spoken. They both naturally wanted to know what brought me in such outlandish parts alone, and where I had come from (for they had not taken me for a missionary, so they said—and I believed them!), and seemed much astonished when I told them that I had just come from Siberia, and across the Gobi desert.

“I suppose you have not seen any of the London papers recently, then?” said the gentleman; and, on my replying that it was many months since I last saw one, he added that as I had just come through Siberia, it would doubtless interest me very much to see a lot of pictures of prison life in that country, which had been appearing for some time past in the Illustrated London News; so many, in fact, that the paper seemed to have devoted itself to Siberia, for some reason or other. It may be imagined how this information tickled me; for it was positively the first intimation I had got that my numerous batches of prison sketches and manuscript had got through the Russian post-office, and reached England safely. Without, however, giving my name or saying what I was, I asked, as unconcernedly as I could, if he knew who they were by, as I might, perhaps, have met the artist whilst in Siberia. “Price,” was the name, he thought. With that I took out one of my cards, and presented, it to him, and we had a hearty laugh at the incident.

After leaving Sin Fou Fou, the road passed through some really magnificent mountain scenery, the wildest and grandest, I think, I have ever seen. At times the track passed right along the very edge of awful precipices, which made me feel quite sick to look down into, for one false step of either of my mules would have been fatal. Yet the brutes somehow would persist in keeping as near the edge as it was absolutely possible to go, in spite of the endeavours of the boy to hold them back. Knowing, from personal experience, that they were not so surefooted as they seem to imagine they are, I felt anything but comfortable. However, not the slightest incident of any kind occurred worth mentioning. To the mountain passes succeeded valleys covered with rich plantations of rice, their submerged state giving a curious and inundated appearance to the landscape. Everywhere the industrious Celestials were hard at work as though there was not a moment to lose. The whole scene was one of great and incessant animation; in fact, I never saw anything to equal the sight. The traffic along the road, which was of enormous width, seemed simply endless, and resembled a continuous caravan of camels, donkeys, and mules, and immense flocks of sheep, and the noise at times was deafening.

A NASTY BIT OF ROAD.