A Woman In China

by Mary Gaunt

But the Prefect was as good as his word, the soldiers saw them through the danger-zone to safety.

“But if it had not been for Mr Chung in the first instance———-” says the missionary, and his gratitude was in his voice.

And Mr Chung had his own troubles. He was progressive and modern, not, I think, Christian, and he had actually himself taught his daughters to read. Also he had decided not to bind their feet. And then, the pity of it—and the extraordinary deference that is paid to elders in China—there came orders from his parents in Canton—he must be a man over forty—the daughters' feet were to be bound.

I was glad indeed to have heard the story of Mr Chung before I set out on my journey.

The Lanho is seven miles, a two hours' journey by mule litter or cart from Cheng Teh Fu, and I decided to go by litter and send my things by cart, for, not only did I object to a cart, but I thought I would like to see what travelling by mule litter was like. I am perfectly satisfied now—I don't ever want to go by one again.

I had to get in at the missionary compound, because it takes four men to lift a litter on to the mules, and there was only one to attend to it. It was early in the morning, only a little after six, but all the missionaries walked about a mile of the way with me—I felt it was exceedingly kind of them, because it was the only time I ever saw men and women together outside the compound—then they bade me good-bye, and I was fairly started on my journey. I sat in my litter on a spring cushion, lent me for the cart by a Chinese gentleman, and I endeavoured to balance myself so that the litter should not—as it seemed to me to be threatening to do—turn topsy-turvy. It made me rather uncomfortable at first, because once in there is no way of getting out without lifting the litter off the mules. You may indeed slip down between it and the leading mule's hind legs, but that proceeding strikes me as decidedly risky, for a mule can kick and his temper does not seem to be improved by having the shafts of a litter on his back.

It was a cloudy morning and it threatened rain. I had only seen one day's rain since I had been in China. The scenery was wild and grand. We went along by the Jehol River, on the edge of one range of precipitous mountains, while the other, on the other side of the river, towered above us. We were going along the bottom of a valley, as is usual in this part of the world, but as the Jehol is a flowing river and takes up a good part of the bottom, we very often went along a track that was cut out of the mountain-side. The white mule in front with the jingling bells and red tassels on his collar and headstall, always preferred the very edge, so that when I looked out of the left-hand side of my litter, I looked down a depth of about thirty or forty feet, as far as I could guess, into the river-bed below. I found it better not to look. Not that it was very deep or that there was any likelihood of my going over. I am fully convinced, in spite of the objurgations showered upon him by the driver, that that white mule knew his business thoroughly. Still it made me uncomfortable to feel so helpless.

And the way was very busy indeed, even thus early in the morning. All sorts of folk were going along it, there were heavy country carts drawn by seven strong mules, they were taking grain to the river to be shipped “inside the Wall,” and the road that they followed was abominable. Every now and again they would stick in the heavy sand or ruts, or stones of the roadway—everything that should not be in a road, according to our ideas, was there—and the driver would promptly produce a spade and dig out the wheels, making the way for the next cart that passed worse than ever. Two litters passed us empty, and we met any number of donkeys laden, I cannot say with firewood, but with bundles of twigs that in any other country that I know would not be worth the gathering, much less the transport, but would be burnt as waste. And there were numberless people on foot, this was evidently a much-frequented highway, since it was busy now when it was threatening rain, for no Chinese go out in the rain if they can help it. I thoroughly sympathise, I should think twice myself before going if I had but one set of clothes and nowhere to dry them if they got wet. The hill-sides were rocky and sterile, but wherever there was a flat place, wherever there was a little pocket of fertile ground, however inaccessible it might appear, it was carefully cultivated, so was all the valley bottom along the banks of the river, and all this ground was crying out for the rain. And then presently down it came, heavy, pouring rain such as I had only seen once before in China. It drove across our pathway like a veil, all the rugged hills were softened and hidden in a grey mist, and my muleteer drew over and around me sheets of yellow oiled paper through which I peered at the surrounding scenery. I wasn't particularly anxious to get wet myself, because I did not see in an open boat how on earth I was ever to get dry again, and three or four days wet or even damp, would not have been either comfortable, or healthy.