It was Sir Robert’s “At home” day, for every Wednesday afternoon he receives his numerous friends in the beautiful grounds surrounding his house, and from six till eight there is tennis and dancing on the spacious lawns. A delightful sense of calm prevailed in this snug and cool retreat, which was a great relief after the continual turmoil and dust outside, a sense of relief in no way marred by the distant strains of the excellent band playing on the lawn—not a Chinese band, thank goodness, but thoroughly European in all but its musicians, who are Chinese boys in the Customs service, and who look strikingly quaint in their national costumes, with their pigtails rolled round their heads like chignons under their straw hats.
The entertainment was concluded, and I was about to take my leave, when Sir Robert whispered in my ear, “Don’t run away, but stay and have a bit of dinner with me en tête-à-tête.” I naturally jumped at the chance of a quiet and informal chat with the great man, so accepted the invitation without hesitation. By-and-by the company gradually left, and we had the beautiful gardens to ourselves. It was such a calm and lovely evening that I could not help remarking to Sir Robert as we strolled up and down, that life in Peking would not be so bad after all if every European had such a beautiful place to live in, so entirely isolated from the foul smells and sights of the native city outside.
“Yes,” replied Sir Robert, “it certainly is a very pleasant retreat, and it is very seldom indeed that I ever leave it to go into the city. My work occupies so much of my time that I have little inclination after it is over of a day to go out visiting, so I live here almost like a hermit. My Wednesday garden-parties are my sole relaxation, and I have only had eighteen months’ holiday in all since I joined the Chinese Customs Service in 1859. Lady Hart left China for England some ten years ago, and I had arranged to join her there in a few months, but every time I commenced making arrangements to leave Peking something turned up to prevent me, and I am even now uncertain when I shall be able to get away, but when I do, it will certainly be for good, for I have had enough of it.”
At this moment dinner was announced, so we adjourned to the house, which is a very large bungalow-built structure, which reminded me very much of the houses to be seen in the newer suburbs of London. Everything inside was about as English-looking as it could well have been. They were huge bachelor quarters, such as, barring their size, could be found anywhere in England, and the resemblance was heightened by the fact of all the rooms being lighted by gas—made on the premises, I learnt.
The dinner was excellent, and would not have disgraced a Parisian chef, and although the menu was written in Chinese, and I therefore did not always know what I was eating, I appreciated it none the less. We dined positively in Oriental magnificence, no less than eight men-servants waiting on us; for the high position which Sir Robert holds in China forces him to keep up a style on a footing with his rank, and he told me that even when he is alone the same ceremony has to be observed. It was one of the penalties of greatness, I remarked. To me, however, unused to such splendour, there was something particularly jarring in feeling myself thus surrounded, and every mouthful I took watched by the many and observant eyes, so I felt quite a sense of relief when the banquet was concluded, and we were left alone with our cigars and coffee, and could talk unrestrained.
Reverting to the length of time he had been in China, I remarked to Sir Robert that he must have come out as a mere youth, for he does not look a very old man now.
“Why, how old do you think I am?” he asked.
As I hesitated to give a direct answer to this question, he proceeded to inform me, to my surprise, that he joined her Majesty’s Consular service in Hong Kong in 1854, just one year before reaching his majority. (He was born in Belfast in 1834.)
“Well, you have had a wonderful time of it since then, Sir Robert,” said I, “and could doubtless write a book of reminiscences which would be of thrilling interest.”
“Yes,” replied my genial host; “but although it has often been suggested to me to publish such a book, I shall probably never carry it into effect, for once I commenced there would be no end to my souvenirs.”