A Woman In China

by Mary Gaunt

There were two men here to make up the complement, one was my missionary's husband, a man who takes the Bible for his guide in everything, the Bible as it is translated into the English tongue. He does not read primarily for the beauty of the language, for the rhythm, for the poetry, for the Eastern glamour that is over all. He reads it, he would tell you himself, for the truth. It is to him the most important thing in the world; he quotes it, he lives by it, it is never out of his thoughts, he might be a Covenanter of old Puritan days. And the fourth missionary is a man of the world. I don't think he realises it himself, but he is. He had lived there many years, had married a wife and brought up children there, and now had sent them home to be educated, and he himself talked, not of the Bible, though I doubt not he is just as keen as the other, but of the people, and their manner of life, and their customs, of the country, and of the strangers he had met, the changes he had seen, and, when I questioned him, of the escape of himself and his family from the Boxers.

For the souls and bodies of these wretched, miserable, uncomprehending Chinese, who very likely, at the bottom of their hearts, pity the strangers because they were not born in the Flowery Land, these devoted people work—work and pray—day and night. The result is not great.

“They will not hear the truth. Their eyes are blind. They worship idols,” they told me of the majority. But they give kindliness, and in all probability, for it is seldom that faithful, honest kindliness fails in its purpose, they make a greater impression than they or I realise.

True they believe firmly in the old Hebrew idea of a “jealous God,” but they themselves are more tender than the God they preach. For all of them, it seemed to me, life is hard, unless they have greater joy in the service than I, “a Greek” could understand, but for the older woman it must be hardest of all.

“My yoke is easy, My burden is light,” said the Master she followed, but the burden of this woman, away up in the mountains of Northern China, is by no means light. The community is so small, they do not belong to the China Inland Mission but call themselves “The Brethren,” the nearest white man is two days away hard travelling across the mountains, so that perforce the life is lonely. Day in and day out they must live here for seven years among an alien people; a people who come to them for aid and yet despise them. And because they would put no more stumbling-blocks in the way of bringing the Chinese to listen to the message they bring, these missionaries conform, as much as they can, to Chinese custom. Very seldom does this woman walk abroad with her husband—it would not be the thing—women and men do not walk together in China. If she goes outside the missionary compound she must be accompanied by another woman, and she puts on some loose coat, because the Chinese would be shocked at any suggestion of the outline of a figure. Also she looks neither to the right nor the left, and does not appear to notice anything, because a well-behaved woman in China never looks about her. She considers, too, very carefully her goings, she would not walk through the town at the hour when the men are going about their business, the hour that I found the most interesting, and invariably chose, no boy may bring her tea to her bedroom—it would not be right—and she has none of the arrogance of the higher race who think what they do must be right and expect the natives of the land to fall into line. No, she conforms, always conforms to the uncomfortable customs of the Chinese, and when any man above the rank of the poorest comes to call upon her husband, she and the girl are hustled out of the way and are as invisible as if he kept a harem. It often occurred to me that the Chinese thought he did. Even in the church the women are screened off from the men, and if a man adheres to the customs of the country so closely in everything they can see, it is natural to suppose they will give him credit for adhering to them in all things. But they must think, at least, he has selected his womenkind with a view to their welfare, for the older woman has had a little medical training, and simple cases of sickness she can deal with, while the German girl, as I have said, is a certified midwife. The other man too, though not a doctor, has some little knowledge of the more simple eye diseases.

And they are grateful, the poor Chinese, for the sympathy they get from these kindly missionaries, who openly say they tend their poor bodies because they feel that so only can they get at their souls. They come to the little dispensary in crowds, come twenty miles over the mountains, and they bring there the diseases of a slum people, coughs and colds, pleurisy and pneumonia, internal complaints and the diseases of filth—here in the clean mountains—itch and the like. Many have bad eyes, many granulated lids, and there is many a case of hideous goitre. While I was there a man, old and poor, tramped one hundred miles across the mountains; he was blind, with frightfully granulated lids, and he had heard of the skill of the missionaries. There are also well-to-do people here, who sometimes seek aid from them, though as a rule, it is the lower class they come in contact with.

But the ailments of the rich are different, I remember my missionary woman was called in to see a girl about twenty, the daughter of a high-class Manchu. The girl had hiccough. It came on regularly about four o'clock every afternoon, and continued, if I remember rightly, three or four hours. She was well and strong, she had everything the heart of a Chinese woman could desire, she was never required to do one stroke of work, but she was not married. The Manchus have fallen on evil times and find some difficulty in marrying their daughters. So this girl, the daughter of well-to-do people, was necessary to no one, not even to herself, and the missionary, finding she spent the greater part of her time lying idly upon the k'ang, diagnosed hysteria, and prescribed a good brisk walk every day. The proud Manchu, who was her mother, looked at the woman she had called in to help her, scornfully.

“My daughter,” she said drawing herself up to her full height, and the Manchus are tall women, “cannot walk in the street. It would not be seemly.”

The missionary looked at her a little troubled.

“At least,” she said, “she can walk in the courtyard and play with her brother's children.”