“I have come to feel that it is the one great want in Western civilization, that the philosophy, the art, the culture, indeed, of China has never been woven into our heritage. It is strange, in a way—we derived our religion from certain primitive tribes in Syria. But they had little culture. The Christian religion teaches conduct but very nearly ignores beauty. And then there is our insistent pushing forth of the Individual. I have come to believe that our West will seem less crass, less materialistic, when the individual is somewhat subdued.” He smiled. “We need patience—sheer quality of thought—the fine art of reflection. We shall not find these qualities at their best, even in Europe. They exist, in full flower, only in China. And America doesn't know that. Not now.”
A little later he said: “That work has been begun, of course, in a small way. A slight sense of Chinese culture is creeping into our colleges, here and there. Some of the poetry is bring translated. The art museums are reaching out for the old paintings. The Freer collection of paintings will some day be thrown open to the public. But traditions grow very slowly. It will take a hundred years to make America aware of China as it is now aware of Italy, Egypt, Greece, even old Assyria.... and the thing must be freed from Japanese influence—we can't much longer afford to look at wonderful, rich old China through the Japanese lens.”
“An' you're going to make tha' your work,” observed Hui Fei.
“I must. I begin to feel that it is to be the only final explanation of my life.”
There was a silence. Then, abruptly, in a tone he did not understand, she asked: “Are you going to work for the Revolution?”
“That is the immediate thing—yes. I shall offer my services.”
“Coul' I do anything, you think? At Shanghai, I mean? Of course, I'm a Manchu girl, but I can no' stand with the Manchu Gover'ment. I am not even with my—my father there.”
“It is possible. I don't know. We shall soon be there.”
“Will you tell me then—at Shanghai?”
He inclined his head. Suddenly he couldn't speak. She was holding to him, as if it were a matter of course; yet he dared not read into her attitude a personal meaning of the only sort that could satisfy his hungry heart. The difficulty lay in his active imagination. Like that of an eager boy it kept racing ahead of any possible set of facts. All he could do, of course, was to go on curbing it, from hour to hour. It would be harder seeing her at Shanghai than running away, as he had half-consciously been planning. But it was something that she clung to him as a friend. He mustn't, couldn't, really, fail her there.