“But suppose you couldn't get away in time?”
“Well, of course, that's possible,” he said thoughtfully, “and the Chinese are beggars at pulling up railways.”
I listened, and then I understood how people get used to contemplating a danger that is only possible, and not actually impending.
“If anything happens to Yuan Shih K'ai,” but then, of course, though that is not only a possible, but even a probable danger, everyone hopes that nothing will happen to Yuan Shih K'ai, just as if anything did happen to him, they would hope things would not be as bad as they had feared, and if their worst fears were realised, then they would hope that they would be the lucky ones who would not be overwhelmed. This is human nature, at least one side of human nature, the side of human nature that has made of the British a great colonising people. The autumn was coming, the golden, glowing autumn of Northern China, so, coming back to Peking, I determined to find out some place where I could enjoy its beauties and write the book which my publisher expected. Most people seem to think that the writing of a book is a mere question of plenty of time, a good pen, paper, and ink. “You press the button, we do the rest,” promises a certain firm that makes cameras; but I do not find either writing or taking photographs quite so simple a matter as all that. To do either, even as well as I can, I want to be by myself, for I am a sociable being, I do love the society of my kind, to talk to them, to exchange ideas with them, and when I am doing that, I cannot give the time and attention it requires to writing. Everyone who writes in China, and anyone who writes at all is moved to take pen in hand to try and elucidate its mysteries, wants to write in a temple in the Western Hills. I was no exception to the rule. The Western Hills, whose rugged outlines you can see from Peking, called me, and I set out to look for a temple. It was going to be easy enough to get one, for “Legation” Peking goes to the hills in the summer, and when autumn holds the land goes back to the joys of city life.
The first I inspected was the Temple of the Sleeping Buddha, a temple which has many courtyards, and a figure of the Buddha, peacefully sleeping. An emblem of peace looks the great bronze figure. He is, of course, represented clothed, only his feet are bare, and the faithful bring him offerings of shoes, rows and rows of shoes there were on a shelf at the side of the temple, some colossal, three or four feet long, and some tiny, some made after the fashion of the ordinary Chinese shoe, of silk or quilted satin, but some make-believe, and very excellent make-believe, of paper. Looking at them I could not have told the difference, and as the Buddha's eyes are shut, he could not even go as far as that. He certainly could not put them on, for his feet are pressed closely together, the feet of a profoundly sleeping man. All is peace here. Here there is no trouble, no anxiety, that sleeping figure seems to say.
But there was for all that. Where in the world is there no trouble?
It takes about three and a half hours to reach the Sleeping Buddha Temple from Peking. First I took a rickshaw across the city. Then from the northwest gate, the Hsi Chih Men, still by rickshaw, I went to the Summer Palace, and I did the remaining five miles into the heart of the hills on a donkey. I don't like riding a donkey, five miles on a donkey on an uncomfortable Chinese saddle, riding astride, wearies me to death, and when I was just thinking life was no longer worth living I arrived, and wandered into a courtyard where, at the head of some steps, stood a little Chinese girl. She was dressed in the usual dress of a girl of the better classes, a coat and trousers, like a man usually wears with us, only the coat had a high collar standing up against her cheeks, and because she was unmarried, she wore her hair simply drawn back from her face and plaited in a long tail down her back, much as an English schoolgirl wears it. She made me a pretty, shy salutation, and called to her friend the Englishwoman, who had rented the courtyard, and who was living here while she painted pictures. This lady was returning to Peking she said, next day, but she very kindly invited me to luncheon, and she told me the Chinese girl's story. She was practically in hiding. She had been betrothed, of course, years before to some boy she had never seen, and this year the time had arrived for the carrying out of the contract. But young China is beginning to think it has rights and objects to being disposed of in marriage without even a chance to protest. It would not be much good the boy running away, however much he objected to the matrimonial plans his family had made for him, for he could be married quite easily in his absence, a cock taking his place; but it beats even the Chinese to have a marriage without a bride, therefore the girl had run away. The time was past and the contract had not been carried out. Poor little girl! It surprised me that so shy and quiet a little girl had found courage to defy authority and run away, even though she had found out that her betrothed was as averse from the marriage as she was. She had unbound her feet, as if to signalise her freedom; but alas, the arch of her foot was broken, and she could never hope to be anything but flat-footed, still that was better than walking with stiff knees, on her heels, as if her legs were a couple of wooden pegs like the majority of her fellow-countrywomen. The woman who was befriending her suggested, as I was taking a temple in the hills, I should give her sanctuary. That was all very well, but the care of a helpless being, like a Chinese girl, is rather an undertaking. I consulted a friend who had been in China many years, and he was emphatic on the subject.