Rare Earth/Chapter 19

by Frank Owen

 

Chapter XIX

 

Scobee's impression of China was a kaleidoscope of jumbled sounds. Kaleidoscope is the proper word despite the fact that it is usually concerned with sight and color. The sounds of China were bursting with color, a bizarre symphony, sometimes high-pitched, ear-splitting, sometimes a sing-song monotone, in rare moments alluringly beautiful. They had commenced their China adventure at Shanghai and even as the steamer entered that weird mud-brown region of water that extends forty miles out into the sea where the loam-laden water of the Yangtze-Kiang and the broad ocean meet, the voice of China could be distinctly heard. All about them small boats loomed up as though they had settled down on the waves like a flock of seagulls. Small junks, with here and there a gigantic one that seemed bursting with the weight of its cargo. House-boats, sampans, motor-boats, bright colored, drab, gray, surrounded the steamer. And on the air floated a fantastic echo of gibberish as though all the hordes of yellow men in China were crying to be heard. Of course the sounds came from the throats of the boatmen eager for business and from the steerage passengers who were shouting lustily, either cheering their native land or fighting among themselves, Scobee did not know which. Such was the first impression which he had of China, discordant, hoarse, without regard or reason.

Until one is able to untangle the skein of sounds which surround China, it is a hopeless muddle. But when one's ear becomes attuned to the harmony of it, it possesses a strange sombre beauty.

At Shanghai they stopped for a few nights at the Hotel Oriental and now the full volume of the voice of China came to Scobee's ears. That which he had heard in the harbor had been little more than an echo. All night long the mingled laughter, shouting and singing continued.

An orchestra nearby was playing plaintive melodies, sometimes Oriental, sometimes gay bursts of music, occasionally an American or an English song rather distorted. He thought he recognized, "It's a Long Way to Tipperary."

That night he slept scarcely at all. He wondered if this Chinese journey would have any good effect upon him. What was the use of going on? His life was as distorted and jumbled as the pandemonium of sound about him.

In the morning after a light breakfast they went for a walk along the Nanking Road.

"Many people," said Hung Long Tom, "claim that in all Asia, The Bund at Shanghai is the most famous street because upon it can be found the finest of business houses but personally to me the Nanking Road holds more of romance. For the poet has written:

'On the Nanking Road
The whole world walks,
A thoroughfare to which
All wanderers come
To stroll in dreams
Upon the ground
Made eloquent
By countless ancestors.
Arab or Turk,
Armenian or Kurd,
All become brothers
On the Nanking Road,
Wayfarers all
Caught in a golden spell.'

To me the Nanking Road represents life. Countless feet, patter of feet, walking, walking, hurrying, strolling, feet, feet, feet. Do you not hear the rhythm of the patter, the poetry of it? Where are all the countless hordes going? Merchants, coolies, Englishmen, Americans, bankers, Mandarins, all sorts and conditions of men, paupers, affluent landowners meeting in the melting-pot of China, stirred into one vast ribbon of humanity stretching along the colorful Nanking Road."

Scobee did not see China, he heard it It moved him somewhat. It made him restless but the peace he sought eluded him.

From Shanghai they made many trips for days at a time, always returning to the Hotel Oriental when the new scenes and sounds palled upon them. Once for a fortnight they took a house-boat up the Yangtze-Kiang that was propelled by the strong oar-arms of rivermen. At times they leaped from the boat to the tow-path along the canals and dragged the boat along after them. The lowdah or chief-boatman sang out his commands as though they were nursery-rhymes in a high falsetto voice that would have been not unapropos in comic opera. But the boatmen seemed to pay scant attention to him. Nor did he seem much concerned thereat Evidently the directions he called out were some sort of ritual handed down from father to son. He was concerned with shouting the orders, not with their execution.

For the most part the scenery was composed of burial grounds and small farms, groups of picturesque trees and rice-fields. But there was no sound worth listening to. The house-boat interlude slumped off into a period of dreadful monotony for Scobee. So profound was his dejection he felt as though he could stand it no longer. Hung Long Tom noticed his restlessness and at once suggested returning to Shanghai.

Next they visited Hangchow, five hours by rail from Shanghai wherein is situated the oldest drug-shop in the world. It is nobody knows how old. Here in jars one may find every queer drug known to the ancient men of Cathay, even pulverized dragon claws, powders for evil thoughts, powders to awaken love. But there was no powder to cure blindness so Scobee and Hung Long Tom continued on.

They visited West Lake, "The Thunder Peak Pagoda," "The Island of the Three Pools" and "The Cave of the Purple Cloud." Though the names were beautiful there were no sounds at these magic spots that filtered into the soul of Scobee. Hangchow was a failure.

The venerable walled city of Soochow at which they stopped off on the return to Shanghai was no better. It has been written that the cobble streets of Soochow have been trod by eighty generations of men. Its known history goes back to four centuries before the birth of Christ. Of no city anywhere has the history been written down so painstakingly. Hung Long Tom loved Soochow because it has always been admittedly the literary heart of China. He was a poet Soochow could not fail to impress him. In his youth he had written many lyrics in praise of the exquisite loveliness of Soochow women.

It troubled him that the Chinese adventure was not doing Scobee any good whatsoever. Something was wrong. He was not able to translate for Scobee the Chinese attitude toward existence. And he thought since all art is interchangeable and one may speak of the poetry of perfume, the music of color, the perfume of sound, why then should not the senses be interchangeable? Why should not man be able to see with his ears or to smell sound? Are not all the senses merely vibrations of light which act on certain hidden nerves in our bodies? If only the sense of hearing could be translated into sight I The trouble is we have so many senses we develop none acutely. How does the mole find its way about in the earth without sight if he has not in some peculiar manner solved the difficulty of blindness? Scobee must be taught to hear on a Celestial plane. Sight was possible for him. But how to attain it, how?

Then he thought of Canton, of the Chinese garden of his youth, of his boyhood home of which he was now the master but which he had never visited since his parents had died. It was well cared for by the sons of Cheng Foong. He received periodical reports in the most minute detail. Far away though he had been, the estate had been carefully administered.

Perhaps in that Cantonese garden Scobee might find comfort, rest. Hung Long Tom scarcely knew what to do. He longed to return home and yet he dreaded it It would make remembrance too keen a thing. It would chop off the years of his life, until only memory of youth remained. Lotus Blossom, where was she now? When her gay presence passed from Hung Long Tom's life, half of him died. But Canton might do Scobee good. The future was a sinister thing to contemplate.

It was worth any trouble, any risk, to try to bring peace to the boy. Hung Long Tom did not for a moment imagine that he would be indicted for the death of Lotus Blossom. Her very passing was forgotten after all these years. Life in China is very cheap. Thousands of men have been hired to die for other men. For the equivalent of a few hundred dollars that would leave the relatives of the martyr in something approaching affluence, untold numbers of Chinamen were willing to die. China is a curious country because her people have suffered every emotion. They have feasted and they have starved, they have been little more than uneducated beasts of burden and they have been among the greatest poets in the world. They have been emperors and paupers. Some of the most magnificent banquets in history were given by the ancient rulers of Cathay. The court of Kublai Khan was fabulous. Marco Polo has given some idea of its magnificence. But also in China one may hear stories of poor families who live in caves in loess deposits along the course of rivers, without any conveniences, people to whom death is the only great adventure in which they ever participate. And at frequent intervals the river rises and floods the caves drowning the poor miserable inhabitants like rats. Welcome death, alleviating hunger and suffering.

For awhile Hung Long Tom mulled over the problem until at last his mind was made up. To Canton they must go. If in that garden Scobee found nothing, then indeed had China failed.