Delphi collected works o.., p.499
Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen, page 499
“Perfectly true, Effie,” I answered; “it is an amiable weakness of mine, after all.”
However, before the week was out Effie and Marian between them would have it that I must call upon Chung and ask him to dine with us at Kensington Park Terrace. Their curiosity was piqued, for one thing; and for another thing, they thought it rather the cheese in these days of expansive cosmopolitanism to be on speaking terms with a Chinese attaché. “Japanese are cheap,” said Effie, “horribly cheap of late years — a perfect drug in the market; but a Chinaman is still, thank Heaven, at a social premium.” Now, though I am an obedient enough husband, as husbands go, I don’t always accede to Marian’s wishes in these matters; but everybody takes it for granted that Effie’s will is law. Effie, I may mention parenthetically, is more than a daughter to us, for she is poor Tom’s only child; and of course everybody connected with dear Tom is doubly precious to us now, as you may easily imagine. So when Effie had made up her mind that Chung was to dine with us, the thing was settled; and I called at his rooms and duly invited him, to the general satisfaction of everybody concerned.
The dinner was a very pleasant one, and, for a wonder, Effie and Marian both coincided entirely in my hastily formed opinion of Mr. Chung. His mellow silvery voice, his frank truthful manner, his perfect freedom from self-consciousness, all pleased and impressed those stern critics, and by the end of the evening they were both quite as much taken with his delightful personality as I myself had originally been. One link leads on to another; and the end of it all was that when we went down for our summer villeggiatura to Abbot’s Norbury, nothing would please Marian but that Mr. Chung must be invited down as one of our party. He came willingly enough, and for five or six weeks we had as pleasant a time together as any four people over spent. Chung was a perfect encyclopædia of information, while his good humour and good spirits never for a moment failed him under any circumstances whatsoever.
One day we had made up a little private picnic to Norbury Edge, and were sitting together after luncheon under the shade of the big ash tree, when the conversation happened to turn by accident on the small feet of Chinese ladies. I had often noticed that Chung was very reticent about China; he did not like talking about his native country; and he was most pleased and most at home when we treated him most like a European born. Evidently he hated the provincialism of the Flowery Land, and loved to lose his identity in the wider culture of a Western civilization.
“How funny it will be,” said Effie, “to see Mrs. Chung’s tiny feet when you bring her to London. I suppose one of these days, on one of your flying visits to Pekin, you will take to yourself a wife in your country?”
“No,” Chung answered, with quiet dignity; “I shall never marry — that I have quite decided in my own mind.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” Marian put in quickly; “I hate to hear men say they’ll never marry. It is such a terrible mistake. They become so selfish, and frumpish, and old-bachelorish.” Dear Marian has a high idea of the services she has rendered to society in saving her own fortunate husband from this miserable and deplorable condition.
“Perhaps so,” Chung replied quietly. “No doubt what you say is true as a rule. But, for my own part, I could never marry a Chinawoman; I am too thoroughly Europeanized for that; we should have absolutely no tastes or sympathies in common. You don’t know what my countrywomen are like, Mrs. Walters.”
“Ah, no,” said my wife contemplatively; “I suppose your people are all heathens. Why, goodness gracious, Mr. Chung, if it comes to that, I suppose really you are a heathen yourself!”
Chung parried the question gracefully. “Don’t you know,” said he, “what Lord Chesterfield answered to the lady who asked him what religion he professed? ‘Madam, the religion to which all wise men belong.’ ‘And what is that?’ said she. ‘Madam, no wise man ever says.’”
“Never mind Lord Chesterfield,” said Effie, smiling, “but let us come back to the future Mrs. Chung. I’m quite disappointed you won’t marry a Chinawoman; but at any rate I suppose you’ll marry somebody?”
“Well, not a European, of course,” Marian put in.
“Oh, of course not,” Chung echoed with true Oriental imperturbability.
“Why of course?” Effie asked half unconsciously; and yet the very unconsciousness with which she asked the question showed in itself that she instinctively felt the gulf as much as any of us. If Chung had been a white man instead of a yellow one, she would hardly have discussed the question at issue with so much simplicity and obvious innocence.
“Well, I will tell you why,” Chung answered. “Because, even supposing any European lady were to consent to become my wife — which is in the first place eminently improbable — I could never think of putting her in the terribly false position that she would have to occupy under existing circumstances. To begin with, her place in English society would be a peculiar and a trying one. But that is not all. You must remember that I am still a subject of the Chinese Empire, and a member of the Chinese Civil Service. I may any day be recalled to China, and of course — I say ‘of course’ this time advisedly — it would be absolutely impossible for me to take an English wife to Pekin with me. So I am placed in this awkward dilemma. I would never care to marry anybody except a European lady; and to marry a European lady would be an act of injustice to her which I could never dream of committing. But considering the justifiable contempt which all Europeans rightly feel for us poor John Chinamen, I don’t think it probable in any case that the temptation is at all likely to arise. And so, if you please, as the newspapers always put it, ‘the subject then dropped.’”
We all saw that Chung was in earnest as to his wish that no more should be said about the matter, and we respected his feelings accordingly; but that evening, as we sat smoking in the arbour after the ladies had retired, I said to him quietly, “Tell me, Chung, if you really dislike China so very much, and are so anxious not to return there, why don’t you throw off your allegiance altogether, become a British subject, and settle down among us for good and all?”
“My dear fellow,” he said, smiling, “you don’t think of the difficulties, I may say the impossibilities, in the way of any such plan as you propose. It is easy enough for a European to throw off his nationality whenever he chooses; it is a very different thing for an Asiatic to do so. Moreover, I am a member of a Legation. My Government would never willingly let me become a naturalized Englishman; and if I tried to manage it against their will they would demand my extradition, and would carry their point, too, as a matter of international courtesy, for one nation could never interfere with the accredited representative of another, or with any of his suite. Even if I were to abscond and get rid of my personality altogether, what would be the use of it? Nobody in England could find any employment for a Chinaman. I have no property of my own; I depend entirely upon my salary for support; my position is therefore quite hopeless. I must simply let things go their own way, and trust to chance not to be recalled to Pekin.”
During all the rest of Chung’s visit we let him roam pretty much as he liked about the place, and Effie and I generally went with him. Of course we never for a moment fancied it possible that Effie could conceivably take a fancy to a yellow man like him; the very notion was too preposterously absurd. And yet, just towards the end of his stay with us, it began to strike me uneasily that after all even a Chinaman is human. And when a Chinaman happens to have perfect manners, noble ideas, delicate sensibility, and a chivalrous respect for English ladies, it is perhaps just within the bounds of conceivability that at some odd moments an English girl might for a second partially forget his oblique eyelids and his yellow skin. I was sometimes half afraid that it might be so with Effie; and though I don’t think she would ever herself have dreamed of marrying such a man — the physical barrier between the races is far too profound for that — I fancy she occasionally pitied poor Chung’s loneliness with that womanly pity which so easily glides into a deeper and closer sentiment. Certainly she felt his isolation greatly, and often hoped he would never really be obliged to go back for ever to that hateful China.
One lovely summer evening, a few days before Chung’s holiday was to end, and his chief at the Embassy expected him back again, Marian and I had gone out for a stroll together, and in coming home happened to walk above the little arbour in the shrubbery by the upper path. A seat let into the hedge bank overhung the summer-house, and here we both sat down silently to rest after our walking. As we did so, we heard Chung’s voice in the arbour close below, so near and so clear that every word was quite distinctly audible.
“For the last time in England,” he was saying, with a softly regretful cadence in his tone, as we came upon him.
“The last time, Mr. Chung!” The other voice was Effie’s. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
“What I say, Miss Walters. I am recalled to China; I got the letters of recall the day before yesterday.”
“The day before yesterday, and you never told us! Why didn’t you let us know before?”
“I did not know you would interest yourselves in my private affairs.”
“Mr. Chung!” There was a deep air of reproach in Effie’s tone.
“Well, Miss Walters, that is not quite true. I ought not to have said it to friends so kind as you have all shown yourselves to be. No; my real reason was that I did not wish to grieve you unnecessarily, and even now I would not have done so, only — —”
“Only —— ?”
At this moment I for my part felt we had heard too much. I blushed up to my eyes at the thought that we should have unwittingly played the spy upon these two innocent young people. I was just going to call out and rush down the little path to them; but as I made a slight movement forward, Marian held my wrist with an imploring gesture, and earnestly put her finger on my lips. I was overborne, and I regret to say I stopped and listened. Marian did not utter a word, but speaking rapidly on her fingers, as we all had learnt to do for poor Tom, she said impressively, “For God’s sake, not a sound. This is serious. We must and ought to hear it out.” Marian is a very clever woman in these matters; and when she thinks anything a point of duty to poor Tom’s girl, I always give way to her implicitly. But I confess I didn’t like it.
“Only —— ?” Effie had said.
“Only I felt compelled to now. I could not leave without telling you how deeply I had appreciated all your kindness.”
“But, Mr. Chung, tell me one thing,” she asked earnestly; “why have they recalled you to Pekin?”
“I had rather not tell you.”
“I insist.”
“Because they are displeased with my foreign tastes and habits, which have been reported to them by some of my fellow-attachés.”
“But, Mr. Chung, Uncle says there is no knowing what they will do to you. They may kill you on some absurd charge or other of witchcraft or something equally meaningless.”
“I am afraid,” he answered imperturbably, “that may be the case. I don’t mind at all on my own account — we Chinese are an apathetic race, you know — but I should be sorry to be a cause of grief to any of the dear friends I have made in England.”
“Mr. Chung!” This time the tone was one of unspeakable horror.
“Don’t speak like that,” Chung said quickly. “There is no use in taking trouble at interest. I may come to no harm; at any rate, it will not matter much to any one but myself. Now let us go back to the house. I ought not to have stopped here with you so long, and it is nearly dinner time.”
“No,” said Effie firmly; “we will not go back. I must understand more about this. There is plenty of time before dinner: and if not, dinner must wait.”
“But, Miss Walters, I don’t think I ought to have brought you out here, and I am quite sure I ought not to stay any longer. Do return. Your Aunt will be annoyed.”
“Bother Aunt! She is the best woman in the world, but I must hear all about this. Mr. Chung, why don’t you say you won’t go, and stay in England in spite of them?”
Nobody ever disobeys Effie, and so Chung wavered visibly. “I will tell you why,” he answered slowly; “because I cannot. I am a servant of the Chinese Government, and if they choose to recall me, I must go.”
“But they couldn’t enforce their demand.”
“Yes, they could. Your Government would give me up.”
“But Mr. Chung, couldn’t you run away and hide for a while, and then come out again, and live like an Englishman?”
“No,” he answered quietly; “it is quite impossible. A Chinaman couldn’t get work in England as a clerk or anything of that sort, and I have nothing of my own to live upon.”
There was a silence of a few minutes. Both were evidently thinking it out. Effie broke the silence first.
“Oh, Mr Chung, do you think they will really put you to death?”
“I don’t think it; I know it.”
“You know it?”
“Yes.”
Again a silence, and this time Chung broke it first. “Miss Effie,” he said, “one Chinaman more or less in the world does not matter much, and I shall never forgive myself for having been led to grieve you for a moment, even though this is the last time I shall be able to speak to you. But I see you are sorry for me, and now — Chinaman as I am, I must speak out — I can’t leave you without having told you all I feel. I am going to a terrible end, and I know it — so you will forgive me. We shall never meet again, so what I am going to say need never cause you any embarrassment in future. That I am recalled does not much trouble me; that I am going to die does not much trouble me; but that I can never, could never possibly have called you my wife, troubles me and cuts me to the very quick. It is the deepest drop in my cup of humiliation.”
“I knew it,” said Effie, with wonderful composure.
“You knew it?”
“Yes, I knew it. I saw it from the second week you were here; and I liked you for it. But of course it was impossible, so there is nothing more to be said about it.”
“Of course,” said Chung. “Ah, that terrible of course! I feel it; you feel it; we all feel it; and yet what a horrible thing it is. I am so human in everything else, but there is that one impassable barrier between us, and I myself cannot fail to recognize it. I could not even wish you to feel that you could marry a Chinaman.”
At that moment — for a moment only — I almost felt as if I could have said to Effie, “Take him!” but the thing was too impossible — a something within us rises against it — and I said nothing.
“So now,” Chung continued, “I must go. We must both go back to the house. I have said more than I ought to have said, and I am ashamed of myself for having done so. Yet, in spite of the measureless gulf that parts us, I felt I could not return to China without having told you. Will you forgive me?”
“I am glad you did,” said Effie; “it will relieve you.”
She stood a minute irresolute, and then she began again: “Mr. Chung, I am too horrified to know what I ought to do. I can’t grasp it and take it all in so quickly. If you had money of your own, would you be able to run away and live somehow?”
“I might possibly,” Chung answered, “but not probably. A Chinaman, even if he wears European clothing, is too marked a person ever to escape. The only chance would be by going to Mauritius or California, where I might get lost in the crowd.”
“But, Mr. Chung, I have money of my own. What can I do? Help me, tell me. I can’t let a fellow-creature die for a mere prejudice of race and colour. If I were your wife it would be yours. Isn’t it my duty?”
“No,” said Chung. “It is more sacrifice than any woman ought to make for any man. You like me, but that is all.”
“If I shut my eyes and only heard you, I think I could love you.”
“Miss Effie,” said Chung suddenly, “this is wrong, very wrong of me. I have let my weakness overcome me. I won’t stop any longer. I have done what I ought not to have done, and I shall go this minute. Just once, before I go, shut your eyes and let me kiss the tips of your fingers. Thank you. No, I will not stop,” and without another word he was gone.
Marian and I stared at one another in blank horror. What on earth was to be done? All solutions were equally impossible. Even to meet Chung at dinner was terrible. We both knew in our heart of hearts that if Chung had been an Englishman, remaining in heart and soul the very self-same man he was, we would willingly have chosen him for Effie’s husband. But a Chinaman! Reason about the prejudice as you like, there it is, a thing not to be got over, and at bottom so real that even the very notion of getting over it is terribly repugnant to our natural instincts. On the other hand, was poor Chung, with his fine delicate feelings, his courteous manners, his cultivated intellect, his English chivalry, to go back among the savage semi-barbarians of Pekin, and to be put to death in Heaven knows what inhuman manner for the atrocious crime of having outstripped his race and nation? The thing was too awful to contemplate either way.
We walked home together without a word. Chung had taken the lower path; we took the upper one and followed him at a distance. Effie remained behind for a while in the summer-house. I don’t know how we managed to dress for dinner, but we did somehow; and when we went down into the little drawing-room at eight o’clock, we were not surprised to hear that Miss Effie had a headache and did not want any dinner that evening. I was more surprised, however, when, shortly before the gong sounded, one of the servants brought me a little twisted note from Chung, written hurriedly in pencil, and sent, she said, by a porter from the railway station. It ran thus: —
“Dear Mr. Walters,
“Excuse great haste. Compelled to return to town immediately. Shall write more fully to-morrow. Just in time to catch up express.
“Yours ever,
“Chung.”
Evidently, instead of returning to the house, he had gone straight to the station. After all, Chung had the true feelings of a gentleman. He could not meet Effie again after what had passed, and he cut the Gordian knot in the only way possible.
