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- Herausgeber: Eland Publishing
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
The trail of discovery began when Hugh Trevor-Roper received the memoirs of Sir Edmund Backhouse, the celebrated Chinese scholar, in somewhat unusual circumstances. They described a very different person from the one who had apparently lived such a respectable life until his death in 1944. In them, Backhouse claimed that he had been intimate with characters as diverse as Verlaine and Lord Roseberry, and that his many lovers (of both sexes) had included the Dowager Empress of China. It gradually became clear that the detailed, plausible and obscene memoirs were a work of fantasy – yet a fantasy interwoven with detailed fact. Intruigued, Hugh Trevor-Roper set out to discover as much as he could about Sir Edmund Backhouse, and unearthed the story of one the most outrageous confidence tricksters of the century.
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Hermit of Peking
The hidden life of Sir Edmund Backhouse
Hugh Trevor-Roper
Contents
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to all those who have assisted me in my pursuit of Sir Edmund Backhouse‚ even though many trails proved false and delusive. I have expressed certain particular obligations in the text. Here, I offer my general thanks to those who have answered my letters, supplied personal information, allowed me to quote copyright matter, or pointed the way to other sources, and who may well be somewhat surprised at the total picture to which they have contributed: viz.:
Sir Harold Acton; Sir John Addis; Mr S. A. M. Adshead of the University of Canterbury, Christchurch, New Zealand; Sir Jonathan Backhouse, Bart.; Mr Alan Bell, Assistant Keeper of Manuscripts at the National Library of Scotland; Miss Kathleen F. Bland; Mr M. W. Bryan of Oriel College, Oxford; Mr P. D. Coates; Sir Colin Crowe; Mrs Anna Currie; Mrs Hope Danby; Mr Stephen Egerton; Mr Mark Elvin of St Antony’s College, Oxford; the Lord ffrench; Mr Philip Fox of G. C. Fox & Co., Falmouth; Mr Kenneth Gardner, Deputy Keeper of Oriental MSS and Books, the British Library; Mr Peter Gwyn, archivist of Winchester College; Mr J. R, Highfield of Merton College, Oxford; Mr Robert Rhodes James, M.P.; Sir Lionel Lamb; the late Mr W. E. Lewisohn; Laetitia, Lady Lucas-Tooth; M. Roland de Margerie, Ambassadeur de France; Sir James Marjoribanks; Mr Frederick Müller, officer in charge of the Search Room of the Department of Official Receivers, Royal Courts of Justice; Mr Michael Moss, archivist of Glasgow University; Mr Francis Noel-Baker; Sir Alwyne Ogden; Sir Humphrey Prideaux-Brune; Mr Walter Robinson; Eva, Countess of Rosebery; Dr A. L. Rowse; Mr Peter Shaw, Secretary of King’s College, London; Mr Gardner D. Stout; Mr Michael Straight; Lord Trevelyan; M. Henri Vetch of Hong Kong; Commander Clare Vyner; Mr Edward H. Weitzen, Chairman of the Bank Note Company of New York; Sir Dick White; Mr Theodore Zeldin.
I am also grateful to Miss Caroline Hobhouse of Macmillan London Ltd for her imperturbable patience and assistance and to my wife for her care and devotion in preparing the index.
9‘I have had an interesting life, although in a hidden way – behind the scenes, I mean.’
Edmund Backhouseto J. O.P. Bland, 1933
‘The greatest genius it has ever been my privilege to know.’
G. E.Morrison, 1909
‘The most remarkable scoundrel ever known in the Far East.’
G. S. Hall,1917
‘Sir Edmund, with all his shortcomings, was most extraordinary and perhaps never revealed his personality completely.’
Reinhard Hoeppli, 1945
Illustrations
following page 224
Edmund Backhouse at Oxford. (Bodleian Library, Oxford)
Edmund Backhouse and Princess P’u-lun. Detail from a group photograph of imperial ladies at the British Embassy, 1903. (Private collection)
Edmund Backhouse aged about forty-five. (Private collection)
The Dowager Empress of China. (The Smithsonian Institution, Freer Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.)
Part of the Diary of Ching-shan. (British Museum)
Lord ffrench and his household in Peking. (Private collection)
J.O.P. Bland, William Straight and Lord ffrench, Peking, 1909. (Private collection)
G.E. Morrison. (The Times)
J.O.P. Bland in retirement, 1936. (Private collection)
‘Paul’ Backhouse, the Catholic convert. (Mrs Hope Danby)
Edmund Backhouse in old age. (Bodleian Library, Oxford)
Edmund Backhouse on his deathbed. (Bodleian Library, Oxford)
Prologue
On the roll of honour of the Bodleian Library at Oxford – that neo-Jacobean marble tablet upon which are inscribed the names of its most munificent benefactors – there appears, together with those of Humfrey, Duke of Gloucester, Sir Thomas Bodley, Archbishop Laud, Oliver Cromwell, Paul Mellon and the Rockefeller Foundation, the name ‘Edmundus Backhouse, baronettus’. Sir Edmund Backhouse, second baronet (1873–1944), is certainly worthy of his place on that record, for in 1913 he presented to the Library a collection of 17,000 volumes* of Chinese printed books and manuscripts, some of them (we are assured) exceedingly rare and valuable, some quite unique, and in the course of the next eight years he added another 10,000 volumes, making the Backhouse collection – according to the experts – by those gifts alone, one of the finest Chinese libraries in Europe. So handsome a gift deserves appropriate recognition. It also raises questions. Who was the donor? How did he acquire these treasures? What motive impelled his generosity? The scope and provenance of any great collection is part of its history, and as we honour our benefactors, so we should also seek to know about them, as a just recognition of their generosity.
Sir Edmund Backhouse, at the close of his life, was particularly anxious that we should know his true history. He then wrote, for publication – he insists frequently on his desire for 12publication – two volumes of memoirs. These memoirs, which are unlikely to be published, differ profoundly from the only public record of his life at present in print: the brief entry in The Dictionary of National Biography written by his friend Mrs Hope Danby. In offering a third account, which differs totally from both his and hers, I hope that I shall approach nearer to the truth. It may be that he will appear, in this book, a little less respectable than in Mrs Danby’s article; but at least he will seem a great deal more respectable than he would himself have us believe.
Sir Edmund Backhouse was a sinologist. He earned his fame and acquired his collection in China. If he is known in the world, it is by two books which he wrote in collaboration with J. O. P. Bland: China under the Empress Dowager, published in 1910, and Annals and Memoirs of the Court of Peking, published in 1914. The first of these, the first scholarly life of the last significant ruler of imperial China, has long been regarded as a classic, and is regularly cited as an authority by Western writers. Nothing can replace it in the immediacy of its documentation, the vividness of its detail, the ease and readability of its style. The latter is a similarly documented anthology of scenes from court history under the Ming Emperors and their successors, the last dynasty of China, the Manchu dynasty of the Ch’ing.
For a summary of Backhouse’s life it is convenient – indeed necessary – to begin with the only published source, Mrs Danby’s brief biography. Mrs Danby is a painter and writer who lived in Peking from 1926 to 1942 and who counted Sir Edmund Backhouse as one of her oldest friends there. In her article on him, which is based on ‘personal knowledge’, she related Backhouse’s immediate parentage; his education; his extraordinary flair for languages; his long residence in China; his service as translator to the embassy; his teaching appointments; his publications; his generosity to the Bodleian Library; and the honours bestowed upon him. Distinguished posts, she 13tells us, were offered to him in Europe, ‘but China called’, and in China he stayed. ‘As time went on’, we learn, he became a recluse, devoting his whole days to study and writing. ‘In his house in the West City of Peking, he lived the life of a Chinese scholar, even wearing the long native robes. Little by little, he gave up all social contacts with his European and American friends, and would receive only two or three of them; thus he gained the reputation of being something of a mystery man. But he continued to see his Chinese friends, among whom were scholars, officials and members of the old imperial family.’ He was working, it seems, upon an Anglo-Chinese dictionary and upon personal histories of the Ch’ing emperors. But a disastrous accident prevented the completion of these works. ‘When the Japanese invaded Peking in 1937 Backhouse was forced to leave his Chinese home, and he took refuge in the compound of the former Austrian Legation, later going to live in a house in the British Embassy grounds. The Japanese, deeply suspicious of all written documents, made a bonfire of his papers and manuscripts, among them the dictionary and the histories, and so the priceless records and labour of nearly half a century were lost.’ In his last years, she concludes, Backhouse ‘turned to religion’, and became a Roman Catholic. When war broke out between Japan and Britain in December 1941, he refused the offer of repatriation, and died in the French hospital in Peking on 8 January 1944.
To this formal account Mrs Danby has added a few picturesque details in a volume of memoirs of her own life in China which she published in 1955. Here Backhouse features as a benevolent, absent-minded professor with an ‘intimate knowledge of Chinese history’, whose dignified white beard, and the ‘long, heavy, white silk Chinese gown’ which he wore even in the heat of summer, made him resemble one of the Jesuits at the early Manchu court. These external details create an agreeable picture of the émigré English baronet who had gone native, but they do not bring his personality any 14nearer to us. We still do not know what caused him to live in Peking, what was the real subject of his secret study, the motive of his secluded life. The mystery man is a mystery man still.
One of the mysteries concerning Backhouse surrounds the Chinese diary, the diary of Ching-shan, which, as he tells us, he himself discovered in 1900, during the Boxer Rising, and afterwards translated for inclusion in China under the EmpressDowager. The debate about the authenticity of this work, the original manuscript of which is now in the British Museum, began during his lifetime and has never been entirely settled. The late Victor Purcell, in his authoritative book on The BoxerUprising, published in 1963, devoted a special appendix to the document, which, if genuine, must be regarded as an irreplaceable primary source for the historian. He concluded that the diary was forged, but by whom and for what purpose he could not determine. Mrs Danby, in her brief biography of Backhouse, does not mention this controversy, on which, however, any final judgement of his character must depend. I venture to think that the evidence which I shall submit will settle that controversy.
I confess, I would have been happy to leave Backhouse in his self-engendered cloud of mystery had it not been for a strange chance. In the summer of 1973, a distinguished Swiss scientist, the director of an international medical institute, wrote to me in somewhat guarded terms, asking me whether I would receive and, if I thought fit, transmit to the Bodleian Library for preservation there, a substantial work by Backhouse, which had recently come into his hands. In explanation of his request, my correspondent enclosed a history of the document and the written opinions of two distinguished scholars to whom it had been shown. These scholars agreed that it was of great literary and historical value, although it was clear, from their reports, that it was also somewhat obscene. The document was destined for the Bodleian Library as a 15natural companion to the collection of books and manuscripts already given by the author; but it was thought that it should first be examined by a British historian, and I was thought most appropriate since it was believed that, like Backhouse, I had spent some time in the British Secret Service. I accepted the proposal and since, for some reason, it was thought inconvenient to entrust such a parcel to the post, it was placed ceremoniously in my hands at Basel airport, through which, in August 1973, I happened to pass.
When I arrived back in Oxford, I unpacked the parcel, and found that it consisted of two works, neatly typed on quarto paper, each contained in an elegant case of Chinese manufacture, and prepared, in every detail – dedication, table of contents, illustrations – for the printer. Both works were in English. The first was entitled ‘The Dead Past’; the second, which was liberally sprinkled with Chinese ideograms, had a French title, ‘Décadence Mandchoue’. To each was prefixed a solemn – some might say an over-solemn – protestation of scrupulous veracity. Suitably impressed, I decided to start at once, and to begin with the more solid-looking volume, ‘Décadence Mandchoue’.
I had not read far before I realized why the Swiss custodians of these volumes had preferred not to entrust them to the post. How, I asked myself, would a right-minded and conscientious customs officer react if he were to open and read these works? The text would surely be confiscated, and perhaps the law would inconveniently take note of the sender and the addressee. For the volumes were of no ordinary obscenity. Reading them, I was reminded of the phrase of A. J. A. Symons when he discovered, with equal surprise and dismay, the pornographic Venetian letters of Frederick Rolfe, Baron Corvo: ‘letters’, he called them, ‘that Aretino might have written at Casanova’s dictation’. This parallel, which immediately struck me at my first reading of Backhouse’s memoirs, was often to recur to me as I afterwards studied his strange 16personality. In the end, I was to find it far closer than I had any reason to foresee.
But it was not merely the obscenity of these two volumes which startled me as I read. Far more, it was the story which they told. Backhouse’s scrupulously veracious memoirs recorded, in detail, a life so extraordinary, and touched, at so many points, the literary and social history of late Victorian England and late Manchu China, that having once embarked upon them, I felt obliged to go on. It was not that they were compulsive reading. Rather, I was perplexed by the personality behind them. Just as Symons was driven, by those obscene Venice letters, to pursue the elusive and preposterous personality of their author, so I felt driven, by these obscene memoirs, to study the no less elusive and preposterous character which had created them. I embarked on a ‘quest for Backhouse’ comparable with his Quest for Corvo.
Besides, there was a practical motive. How, I asked myself, could I allow such explosive documents to be preserved in the Bodleian Library, and in other public repositories, without attempting to check, as far as I could, the surprising historical statements which they contained: statements which, whether they were true or false, equally demolished the accepted portrait of the devoted scholar and raised, by implication, serious questions about his work as a scholar and benefactor?
But if one is to check the autobiography of a recluse, against what external sources is one to check it? At first I attempted to follow the clues provided by the memoirs themselves. In them, Backhouse wrote of his close friendship, even intimacy, with the English and French literary men, and the English statesmen, of the 1890s. This being so, it seemed reasonable to suppose that some trace of him would appear in their papers. But when I examined their available papers, I found that these distinguished men were remarkably – perhaps in some cases understandably – reticent on the subject. In fact, as far as I could discover, they did not mention him at all. Moreover, 17some of the statements, or confessions, in Backhouse’s memoirs were so remarkable that I judged it prudent not to rely too implicitly on any statement that came solely from them.
I therefore decided to build up Backhouse’s history, as far as possible, solely from external sources, without any reference to his memoirs, even as a starting point. I consulted those of my friends who had been in China in Backhouse’s lifetime, and soon found myself in correspondence with a number of persons who might well have seen, and sometimes even had seen, the elusive baronet. Sir Harold Acton directed me to M. Henri Vetch, the French publisher in Peking, now in Hong Kong, who had published the 1939 Peking edition of Chinaunder the Empress Dowager and had thus been in touch with its author. M. Vetch directed me to Mr William Lewisohn, former Times correspondent in Peking, who was now living in retirement, being ninety years old, but encore trèslucide, in Marlow on the Thames. Mr Lewisohn, besides giving me useful information, directed me to several retired British diplomatists who had served in Peking in the 1920s and 1930s. Mrs Danby supplemented her published accounts by some vivid touches. My friend M. Roland de Margerie confirmed some of the details already supplied to me and added some fascinating personal reminiscences. I am grateful to all these persons for their help. But in the end, what could they say? They could bring the elusive form briefly to life. They could confirm that he existed. Perhaps they had caught a glimpse of him – seen him pass in a rickshaw, in his Chinese clothes, hastily covering his face lest he be observed by profane Western eyes. Perhaps they had met him over some necessary business – a translation, his allowance, his safety. Then they had noted his intense nervous fear of company, his suspicion that he was being dominated, but also his unfailing courtesy and charm, his exquisite manners and feminine movement. Or they had merely heard of him, as the fabulous hermit in the Tartar city. Not one of them had any idea of his true personality, or why 18he had come to China, or what he did there. He was an institution – or rather, since that word implies a certain stability, a continuous furtive presence, like some shy night-animal which lives in a far corner of the park, and has lived there since time out of mind, but is seldom seen, although once or twice, in times of drought or dearth, to the astonishment of all, it has come to the house to be fed.
Seeking to penetrate behind such superficial impressions, I naturally looked for papers. But Backhouse left no personal papers, and there are (I am informed) no Backhouse family papers. Everything which he himself had written and kept with him up to 1939 disappeared in the mysterious holocaust of that year, which Mrs Danby has ascribed, perhaps too readily, to the Japanese.† After that date there were only the memoirs. However, there was one institution with which he must surely have corresponded, at the time of his great benefactions: the Bodleian Library. I therefore turned to the archives of that Library. There I was rewarded by finding my first solid evidence of his existence and activity before he disappeared into his almost total oriental seclusion.
This evidence consisted of two volumes of correspondence concerning the Backhouse collection, kept by two successive librarians: Falconer Madan, who was librarian till 1919, and his successor Arthur Cowley. These two volumes shed a new and disconcerting light on Backhouse’s activities between 1912 and 1923 and strengthened the conclusions to which I was already being driven by a critical study of his memoirs. But of course these two volumes did not go back beyond 1912 when Backhouse first approached the Bodleian with his handsome offer of Chinese books and manuscripts. He was then already 19in his fortieth year, and had already lived – as I deduced – at least fifteen undocumented years in China: undocumented, that is, except by his own memoirs, which, being themselves on trial, could not be used as a source.
Since the public documents of those early years did not mention him, it was clear that I must seek out private documents. There were two persons whose correspondence should have shed light on Backhouse’s life in China before 1913. One of these was his collaborator, J. O. P. Bland, the co-author with him of those two books, China under the Empress Dowager and Annals and Memoirs of the Court of Peking. At the time of their first collaboration, Bland was correspondent of TheTimes in Peking. The other was Bland’s superior (and rival) in the hierarchy of The Times, the well-known political correspondent and expert on China, Dr G. E. Morrison.
Since Morrison knew everybody in Peking, it seemed to me inconceivable that he did not know Backhouse, and as he was never inhibited by discretion, it seemed to me unlikely that he did not, at some time, express his opinions about him. I was therefore surprised and disappointed to find, in Mr Cyril Pearl’s life of Morrison, no mention whatever of Backhouse as a person, or indeed of Morrison’s relations with his own colleague, Backhouse’s collaborator, Bland. However, on discovering from Mr Lewisohn that Morrison’s own diary, though prepared for publication, had been found unpublishable precisely because of his outspokenness, I was not discouraged. I asked my friend Mr S. A. M. Adshead, who was in Australia at the time, to help me by looking at certain boxes of Morrison’s original papers; for these papers are all now at the Mitchell Library in Sydney. He kindly did so, and his transcripts have been invaluable to me. They provided the earliest evidence of Backhouse’s activities in Peking, evidence since supplemented by Dr Lo Hui-min’s scholarly edition of Morrison’s selected correspondence, of which the first volume appeared when my book was already in the publisher’s hands.
20More important even than Morrison’s papers would be the personal papers, if any still existed, of J. O. P. Bland. Morrison died in 1920; Bland outlived Backhouse, dying in 1945. But were there any Bland papers? At first I presumed that there were not, for in 1963, in his book The Boxer Uprising, which I have already mentioned, Victor Purcell wrote that he had ‘not, so far, been able to trace any private papers of J. Q. P. Bland’. However, I soon learned that in 1970 – five years after Purcell’s death – Bland’s literary executor had presented his papers to the University of Toronto, where they are now to be found in the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library. I therefore wrote to the librarian, who kindly sent me microfilms of all the papers which I needed. They included Bland’s copious correspondence, his detailed diaries, and his unfinished memoirs. This rich archive proved the most valuable single source which I had yet discovered. Together with the Morrison papers, it enabled me to reconstruct an almost continuous biography of Backhouse from 1899 to 1914, and occasionally beyond.
These three manuscript sources, then – the Bodleian papers, the Morrison papers and the Bland papers – provided me with the essential material for my independent study of the life of Sir Edmund Backhouse from the time of his arrival in China until the outbreak of the Second World War. After that, there was a fourth source in his last patron and protector, the Swiss consul in Peking, Dr Reinhard Hoeppli, the ‘editor’ and only begetter of the memoirs which had been placed in my hands in Basel. The contribution of Dr Hoeppli will become apparent in due course. He was to play an important part in this story.
When I found myself in possession of these four major sources, I believed that I was in a position to reconstruct and perhaps explain the life of Backhouse. But soon it became apparent that that life, whatever relation it bore to the life described in the memoirs, was far more extraordinary and 21mysterious than was openly admitted in any of these documents, or perhaps even known to any of their writers. Bland, Madan, Cowley, Hoeppli, though surprised by individual manifestations of Backhouse’s character, were all quite unaware of his true nature, or his full career. Even Morrison, with his rough perceptions, only saw certain obvious aspects of that character. If I were really to discover the springs of his action, I must penetrate more deeply. Fortunately, one of these four major sources supplied me with certain essential hints.
The crucial document, without which I would never have been able to break through this second barrier, was a summary account drawn up by Morrison, two years before his death, of the remarkable entrepreneurial activities of Backhouse in the years 1914–18. Nothing that I had hitherto read had given any suggestion of such activities, which, on first reading, seemed to me, as they seemed to others at the time, quite incredible. The only way to test them was to examine the records, if they were available, of the two companies which were shown to have employed Backhouse as their agent in China. These two companies were John Brown Shipbuilding and Engineering Company, of Clydeside, and the American Bank Note Company of New York. To these companies I therefore addressed my inquiries.
John Brown Shipbuilding and Engineering Company, of Clydeside, was a subsidiary of John Brown & Co., of London, and, as such, enjoyed little autonomy. The records were therefore likely to be held by the parent company in London. Most of the evidence which I found showed that Backhouse’s activities were in any case controlled by the parent company, whose chairman was Charles McLaren, first Lord Aberconway. This parent company still continues, but my attempts to penetrate its records were firmly blocked. I was informed that the company almost certainly had no archives going back to the years in question, and anyway had no time to 22‘rummage’ among past papers to look for them.‡ However, I found that some of the documents relating to the shipbuilding activities of the company had either remained with the subsidiary company on Clydeside or had been sent to it when that company was absorbed, in 1968, into the consortium of Upper Clyde Shipbuilders, and that afterwards, when that consortium had gone into liquidation, these documents had passed into the library of Glasgow University. There the Archivist, Mr Michael Moss, kindly examined them for me and, thanks to him, I was able to reconstruct at least the outline of Backhouse’s activities during his seven years on the company’s pay-roll. A fuller account, based on the central records of the company, would no doubt be more colourful; but at present it is not to be had.
My application to the second of these two companies, the American Bank Note Company, was very differently received. The Chairman of its Board, Mr Edward H. Weitzen, showed an immediate interest and personally ordered the archives of the company to be examined for me. The company’s researcher, Miss Alice Zecher, rummaged very thoroughly, and supplied me with a series of fascinating transcripts which both confirmed and supplemented the revelations in Morrison’s documents, and enabled me to establish, in some detail, the story of Backhouse and the Chinese bank notes. Afterwards, Mr Mark Elvin drew my attention to a third source which turned out to bear on the same episode. It is a file among the archives of the Foreign Office, entitled ‘Affairs of Sir Edmund Backhouse’. On inspection, I found it to be a file opened in October 1917 on the orders of the British Minister in Peking, Sir John Jordan. The circumstances in which it was opened 23will become clear later in this book. At present it is enough to say that it provided me with the final and conclusive evidence on that curious episode: an episode which is of obvious importance in view of the disputes surrounding some of Backhouse’s literary exploits.
Historical inquiry never ends. I had already, as I thought, completed my text and had sent it to the publisher, when Mr Elvin drew my attention to the Peking file. On first reading that file, I fondly believed that I need only add some details and qualify others in my chapter on Backhouse’s entrepreneurial activities. But on looking more closely I soon saw that there had been another even more extraordinary episode in Backhouse’s life during the First World War. The reference to it came in a confidential note by the Minister himself. This note clearly implied that Backhouse had indeed been a secret agent of the British government, and had been involved, as such, in a mysterious and protracted operation of which the Minister did not afterwards wish to be reminded. This operation evidently concerned the secret purchase of arms, probably in the summer of 1915.
At first, I must admit, I was tempted to leave it at that: to point to the mystery, declare it mysterious, and say no more. My text was complete; my publisher was ready to print it; other avocations beckoned me away. Had I not spent enough time on Backhouse? Was not his character now sufficiently illustrated, my conclusion sufficiently proved? How glad I am that I did not yield to that temptation of indolence! A few more visits to the public records soon pierced the veil of mystery and revealed the incredible story – surely the most fantastic even of Backhouse’s exploits – which I shall describe in the seventh chapter of this book.
When I consider how deeply I had studied the life of Backhouse, and how nearly I had sent it to press, without having discovered any trace of this extraordinary and crucial episode, which obliged me to write a complete new chapter and reorient 24 my whole book, my confidence almost failed me. How could I be sure that other episodes, no less strange, were not hidden away, equally inaccessible, in the dark corners of that apparently hermit life? For assuredly there are many such dark periods, many unstirred depths in which similar slumbering monsters may yet uncoil and heave. There are the restless journeys between England and China undertaken almost every year before 1921. There are the long periods of unbroken seclusion in Peking after 1921. There are the sinister adventures in America to which George Hall alluded, as events long past, in 1917. Above all, there are the missing years between 1895, when Backhouse left Oxford, and 1898, when he arrived in China. Though I have tried hard to penetrate them, those three years, which may have been so important in the formation of his character and tastes, and in the direction of his later life, remain, surprisingly, a total blank.
I have decided to leave them a blank. No doubt, somewhere, there are documents which would shed some light, even if it were only indirect light, obtained by deduction or from retrospective allusion, on those missing years. But some archives have proved impenetrable to me, and others have been destroyed.§ After many fruitless applications and illusory 25trails, a historian must often be content to suspend judgement and to leave obstinate problems unanswered. There is anyway, in historical research, after a certain point, a law of diminishing returns: if a problem will not yield to direct assault, it may be wisdom to pass it by and tackle another, which may indirectly serve our purpose, rather than lay a long and futile siege to an impregnable fortress. I hope that, in spite of many questions still unanswered, this brief study will nevertheless fulfil its purpose: that it will answer certain questions which have long been discussed about Backhouse’s work, and provide a truer history than has hitherto been available about the mystery man whom a Chinese scholar has described to me as ‘though a recluse, certainly the most interesting and colourful of the Europeans of his time in China’. 26
* Chinese books are counted in chüan, being the stitched ‘gatherings’ which make up a book. The word is generally rendered ‘volumes’, and I have therefore kept to this usage.
[Explanatory notes have been set at the foot of the page. Source notes will be found on pp. 375–81.]
† Mrs Danby ascribes the episode to the year 1937, and thus to Japanese pressure. She has evidently conflated two distinct episodes: Backhouse’s temporary withdrawal from Japanese pressure in 1937 and his abandonment of his house in 1939. It was on the latter occasion that his papers were destroyed, and there is no evidence that the Japanese had any hand in their destruction. The episodes will be described below.
‡ One of my correspondents had been more fortunate. He informed me that he had seen the archives of the company and had found them well arranged, by years, going back well beyond the period in which I was interested But his researches, once begun, had been suddenly stopped by higher authority.
§ The private papers which might have shed light on Backhouse’s early years in China are those of Lord ffrench, with whom Backhouse was closely connected in 1908– 9; of Percival Yetts, who was both a Chinese scholar and, while Legation doctor, Backhouse’s medical adviser; and of Sir Reginald Johnston, the Confucian scholar and Chinese administrator who, as we know, had unstated reasons for disliking Backhouse and was in China at the same time. But the relevant ffrench papers have not survived and we know that both Yetts and Johnston caused their own papers to be destroyed. Sir Sidney Barton, who knew Backhouse well in Peking, seems to have left no personal papers. Two men whose personal judgements on Backhouse as a man and as a scholar would be of interest are Sir John Jordan, British Minister in Peking 1906–20, and Arthur Waley; but I have been unable to trace any private papers of Jordan, and Waley’s papers disappeared in mysterious circumstances after his death.
CHAPTER ONE
The Wild Oats
Edmund Trelawny Backhouse was born in 1873. The Backhouse family had risen gradually from humble origins in Lancashire. From their earliest recorded ancestor, John Backhouse of Yealand Redman, yeoman, in the time of Cromwell, they had been Quakers: indeed, they must have ranked as one of the oldest continuously Quaker families, coming, as they did, from the original home of Quakerism at the time of its first founder, George Fox. By the nineteenth century, the Backhouse family had risen in the world of commerce. Their headquarters were now in Darlington, where they owned a family bank; they also had interests in collieries and railways; and business and matrimony had carried them into other counties, and even into America.* But always, hitherto, they had kept within the Quaker fold. Their marriages had been with other prominent Quaker families – Foxes of Cornwall, Fells of Lancashire, Norfolk Gurneys – and they were involved, in one way or another, with many of the famous Quaker mercantile dynasties: Frys, Hoares, Barclays, Hodgkins, Peases. Several of the family had written works of Quaker piety, and one of them was a Quaker missionary.
Among these related Quaker dynasties there was one whose 28connection with the Backhouse family was particularly close. This was the Fox family of Falmouth: a prolific and close-knit family which had prospered in commerce and shipping since the eighteenth century. They controlled a shipping agency in the town, which still survives, and the different branches of the family established themselves in substantial country houses in the neighbourhood. Several members of the family obtained literary or intellectual distinction. In particular, there was Robert Were Fox, F.R.S., of Penjerrick (1789–1877) and his younger brother Charles Fox of Trebah (1797–1878), scientists and scientific writers. Children of both these brothers married into the Backhouse family. Robert Barclay Fox, the only son of Robert Were Fox, married Jane Gurney Backhouse, and Juliet Fox, only child and heir of Charles Fox, married Jane Gurney Backhouse’s brother Edmund, the grandfather of our hero, thus bringing Trebah into the possession of the Backhouse family. This Edmund Backhouse was preoccupied, for most of his life, in the North, and was Liberal Member of Parliament for Darlington from 1868 to 1880; but then, having inherited Trebah from his grandfather, he moved to Cornwall. He was then known as Edmund Backhouse of Trebah, and was a J.P. for Cornwall. He died at Trebah in June 1907.
Edmund Backhouse’s son, Jonathan Edmund, was the first member of the Backhouse family to be brought up, and to marry, outside the Quaker world. He was born in Darlington in 1849, but he must have spent much of his early life with his grandparents and parents in Cornwall, and he married into a Cornish family well known in Anglican history. His wife was Florence, daughter of Sir John Salusbury-Trelawny, ninth baronet. But although he had these Cornish connections, and ultimately inherited Trebah (which he then sold), his main interests remained in the North. He sold the family banking business to the Barclay family and himself became a director of Barclay’s Bank. He then set up as a country gentleman in 29the North. Apart from his town house, Uplands in Darlington, he had a country house, the Rookery, at Middleton Tyas, just over the Yorkshire border. He held offices of dignity in the county and in 1901 would be made a baronet for his services to the Liberal Unionist party.
Jonathan and Florence Backhouse had five sons, one of whom died young, and a daughter. The four surviving sons, between them, repudiated all the peculiar Quaker articles of faith: pacifism, veracity and thrift. Of Edmund’s extravagances we shall soon hear. He was the eldest son. His three brothers all served in the armed forces. Oliver, born in 1876, would become an admiral. The third and fourth brothers, Roger and Miles, were twins born in 1878. Roger would have a distinguished career in the Navy, ending as Admiral of the Fleet; Miles (who shared Edmund’s spendthrift tastes) became a soldier. The daughter, Harriet Jane, would marry Sir John Findlay of Aberlour House, Banffshire, Lord-Lieutenant of his shire and proprietor of The Scotsman. Findlay’s sister Dora would marry Sir Roger Backhouse, the Admiral of the Fleet.
We know nothing about Edmund Backhouse’s childhood, but it is probable that some of it was spent at his grandparents’ home in Cornwall among his Fox relations. Certainly the interests which he acquired were less akin to those of his Backhouse predecessors, with their somewhat oppressive Quaker piety, than to those of the Foxes, who could number, apart from scientists and shipping agents, the diarist Caroline Fox, the friend of Carlyle and John Stuart Mill, and, in an earlier generation, the eccentric orientalist Charles Fox. Shipping agency, diaries, literary friendships and eccentric orientalism were to provide the substance of Edmund Backhouse’s life. There was also, among his Fox relations, a more curious character. This was Charles Masson Fox, of Rosehill, Falmouth, whose grandfather, Alfred Fox, was a brother of Robert Were Fox of Penjerrick and Charles Fox of Trebah. 30Charles Masson Fox was a director of the family shipping agency and a timber-merchant. Thanks to his business interests, he was appointed Russian and Swedish consul in Falmouth. He was a pious Quaker bachelor living a somewhat secluded life, and entertaining himself with local affairs, chess-problems and gardening. His few friends were united by literary and homosexual interests. He also had a strong but furtive taste for homosexual pornography. In fact, it was for him that Baron Corvo wrote those outrageous ‘Venice letters’ to which I have referred.
In 1882 Edmund (or Trelawny, as he sometimes preferred to call himself) was sent to school at St George’s, Ascot. This was a very fashionable school run by a clergyman, the Revd Herbert Sneyd-Kynnersley. Sneyd-Kynnersley has won an unfortunate fame because the success of his school drew to it several boys who afterwards became either famous or articulate or both, and who described his least attractive features: his snobisme, his fanatical toryism (Mr Gladstone was burnt in effigy every year on Guy Fawkes night), and his sadistic passion for beating bare buttocks. Winston Churchill, Roger Fry, Maurice Baring – their accounts supplement and overlap each other. However, the fullest account, which is also the most objective, comes from a German pupil, Harry, Count Kessler, who was afterwards well known as a liberal diplomatist and author. Kessler does not deny the savage bearing (which he himself was spared), but he does show (as does Roger Fry) some of the more attractive characteristics of the school: the headmaster’s genuine interest in the boys, his expeditions with them to discover the country, his enthusiasm for natural history, and the high standard of teaching. The school was a seminary for the great public schools, and it inculcated, by traditional methods, their traditional virtues: the virtues of the English gentleman, good manners and absolute truthfulness. All his life, Backhouse would strike all observers as a perfect gentleman; he was infallibly courteous; 31and he always professed a scrupulous regard for the truth: as he would write in 1943, ‘I have ever been veracious’.
In 1886 Backhouse went from St George’s to Winchester College, where he was elected a scholar, and thence, in 1892, to Merton College, Oxford, as a ‘postmaster’ – that is portionis magister, a scholar of the foundation. He read classics; but already he had discovered a linguistic genius and he began, as an undergraduate, the private study of Asiatic as well as European languages.
His career at Oxford evidently began well. He took a prize for excellent work in his third term; he narrowly missed a first class in Classical Moderations in March 1894; then he transferred to the newly established School of English Literature. However, he never completed the course. He himself ascribed this failure, which he greatly regretted, to ‘a protracted and severe nervous breakdown’. The records of Merton College show that he was absent from Oxford for two terms – the Trinity and Michaelmas terms of 1894. On 10 December 1894 the college decided that he be allowed ‘to return into residence on condition that a confidential servant be constantly in residence with him and he be under the supervision of an Oxford doctor’. He kept two terms after his return, but went down in the summer of 1895 without taking a degree.
In his first year at Oxford, Backhouse became a friend of Max Beerbohm, who was also at Merton College and two years older than he. The few references which Max made to him in his letters to Reggie Turner do not suggest a close friendship; indeed they suggest that Backhouse was regarded as a rich, or at least spendthrift, follower who could conveniently be exploited. On one occasion he describes an unidentified ‘Mr Pigeon’ (presumably a nickname), who was to be held ‘till I can come back and pluck his plumage at leisure’, as ‘the best thing we have been on since Trelawny Backhouse’. William Rothenstein, who came to Oxford to 32draw the inhabitants in 1893, and became a member of Max’s circle, has also left a notice of Backhouse. ‘I also drew Trelawny Backhouse,’ he wrote, ‘an eccentric undergraduate of Merton. He would entertain Max and myself and, in the middle of dinner, would make some excuse and leave us for the rest of the evening. He worshipped Ellen Terry; once he engaged a whole row of stalls which he filled with undergraduate friends. He collected jewels and later, in London, he would bring priceless emeralds to show me. Then he disappeared. Years after, I heard he was living in China, when with J. O. P. Bland, he produced a masterpiece, a book on the Empress Dowager.’ We shall hear more of his jewels – as also of his tendency to withdraw from society, and his sudden vanishing tricks.
Another fleeting glimpse of Backhouse as an undergraduate is given in a letter written long afterwards by one George Cecil Ives. Ives remembered that, in his own undergraduate days at Cambridge, he had visited Oxford and had there discovered a ‘wonderful set’ of congenial spirits, who evidently centred on Pembroke College. This Oxford coterie had included, as he recalled, Theodore Wratislaw, J. F. Bloxam, ‘Backhouse’, and many more: ‘a rare company’. The names betray the character of the set. Ives himself was a homosexual minor poet, and is described as ‘something of a crusader for what he imagined the Greek way of life’. His Oxford friends had the same tastes. Wratislaw also wrote maudlin homosexual poems: his poem ‘to a Sicilian boy’, published in 1893, had to be suppressed to avoid trouble. Bloxam, who became a high-church clergyman, edited a magazine, The Chameleon, whose only issue, published in December 1894, acquired notoriety through the trial of Oscar Wilde. It contained poems by Lord Alfred Douglas and a pseudonymous homosexual story, ‘The Priest and the Acolyte’, which was ascribed to Wilde, and was used to damage him, but which was in fact by Bloxam himself. 33There is no reason to doubt that the ‘Backhouse’ who was associated with this set was our Edmund, who certainly had friends in Cambridge, of similar interests and inclinations, at that time. In May 1895 we catch another brief glimpse of Backhouse, in similar company. By now he is at the end of his undergraduate career, and we find him raising money for the defence of Oscar Wilde, at that time facing his famous prosecution. Raising money would also be one of his regular preoccupations in later life.
For, generally speaking, Backhouse was better at spending than at getting. In him, long generations of Quaker frugality at last took their revenge. Throughout his career at Oxford he spent lavishly. At the end of it the creditors began to press, and soon it became clear that they could not be satisfied. Backhouse’s debts, incurred in three years as an undergraduate, are said to have amounted to the huge sum of £23,000.
The ugly facts were revealed in December 1895 when Backhouse was formally declared bankrupt. In the documents of the court he is described as ‘Edmund Trelawny Backhouse of Merton College, Oxford, late of the National Liberal Club, Whitehall Court, S.W.1’. The court proceedings dragged on through 1896 and 1897. The receivers were discharged on 3 November 1897, but the discharge was suspended for two years while settlements were made with the creditors, and it was not till 3 November 1899 that the creditors, having received payment of one tenth of their claims, were declared to be satisfied. By that time, Backhouse was in Peking.
Where had he been in the meantime? We do not know. We can only conjecture. We can only say that there is some evidence that he had been abroad, for when he arrived in Peking he already knew a number of foreign languages, including Russian, Japanese and modern Greek, which can hardly have been acquired without serious study and foreign travel. His sister stated, in a newspaper interview after his 34death, that after taking his Oxford degree – by which presumably she meant (since he did not in fact take a degree) after leaving Oxford – he went to America and there spent three months in a nursing-home. Among his fellow patients, she said, were a Russian and a Japanese, and it was from them that he learned those two languages. This is no doubt what she heard from him. At any rate, it is evidence that he had been to America; for his sister would have known that. At times of crisis Backhouse tended to disappear and declare himself gravely ill, and it may well be that when the bankruptcy proceedings were brought, he was conveniently abroad.
This conjecture can be supported by another conjecture. For how, we may ask, did his father face this unfortunate affair? Jonathan Backhouse was, by all accounts, exceptionally careful of money, and he would naturally be indignant at his son’s outrageous extravagance. On the other hand he was also a very respectable banker, who could not, with equanimity, have seen his son and heir declared publicly and legally bankrupt. In the event, the affair was managed discreetly and no fact was published which stated the connection between the bankrupt son and the banker father. But we may suppose that, however reluctantly, Mr Backhouse would have sought to prevent the bankruptcy proceedings, had he been able. The fact that they went forward, and that no current address in England was given for Edmund, suggests that he had already gone abroad. The address given in the documents, ‘of Merton College, Oxford’, merely indicates that these were undergraduate debts. The second address, ‘late of the National Liberal Club’, implies that he was no longer there.
Further, the Bankruptcy Act of 1869, which was in force at the time, declared that bankruptcy was incurred if a debtor had, ‘with intent to defeat or delay his creditors, … departed out of England, or, being out of England, remained out of England’. It seems probable, in all the circumstances, that this is precisely what Backhouse had done, and that this is how the 35bankruptcy proceedings were initiated. In other words, having left Oxford and established himself briefly in London, and finding himself pursued by creditors in both places, Backhouse sought refuge abroad; his creditors thereupon appealed to the law; he was declared bankrupt; and his family were left to repair the damage as best they could. Between parsimony, prudence and care for the reputation of his family, his father handled the matter skilfully enough. The creditors were bought off cheaply; the unfortunate facts were successfully suppressed; and Jonathan Backhouse seems to have committed himself to a future policy: he would provide his son with a modest allowance, while warning him that he could no longer expect a customary inheritance. Edmund’s prospective capital had been anticipated in the cost of his bankruptcy, and he could not be trusted to manage an estate. Meanwhile Edmund had been expelled from the National Liberal Club under its rule 38 which covers ‘public disgrace, conviction or bankruptcy’.
So we have brought our hero to China: somewhat mysteriously, we must admit, and through dangerous domestic rifts and economic shoals; but he is there. Why he came, on what conditions, or with what hopes, we do not know. Of his first appearance there we have one brief and tantalizing notice. It comes in the correspondence of Sir Robert Hart, the Ulsterman who effectively created the Chinese Imperial Maritime Customs.
Hart was by now a man of great power in China, which had been his home almost continuously for forty-four years. He lived in great splendour in Peking, dispensing lavish hospitality and maintaining a brass band; and many men who became prominent in Chinese affairs had begun by serving under him. Backhouse evidently hoped to begin that way too, for on 26 February 1899 Hart wrote to his agent in London that ‘a very good candidate’ for his department had arrived in the city, namely, Mr Edmund Backhouse, the son of a director of 36Barclay’s Bank. Hart added that Backhouse was aged twenty-five, knew Russian and Chinese, and had come with letters of recommendation from Lord Salisbury, the Duke of Devonshire, and Joseph Chamberlain. Lord Salisbury was Prime Minister at the time, the Duke of Devonshire was Lord President of the Council and Joseph Chamberlain was Colonial Secretary. Such powerful sponsorship seems too good to be true. It makes us ask what Backhouse, whom we last saw as a disgraced wastrel, can have been doing in the last three years to deserve it. Unfortunately we cannot answer this question, so we must leave it in suspense. Anyway, powerful though it might be, it was not powerful enough. Hart admitted that Backhouse would be a very desirable addition to his service, but he added that ‘at present I can’t afford it’. However, it seems that he encouraged Backhouse to hope that a vacancy would be found.
In fact Backhouse never found a place in the Imperial Customs. How he lived in Peking at first is not clear. Mrs Danby says that he was a ‘student interpreter’ at the British Legation, but this is incorrect.† However, he may have been called in, from time to time, to help in the translation of occasional documents for British officials. Certainly any Englishman who had a good knowledge of Chinese had plenty of opportunities at that time. For Backhouse arrived in China at a time of great excitement. 1898; the year of his arrival, was the year of ‘the Hundred Days’ Reform’, the beginning of a chain of events which would culminate in the revolution of 1911 and the overthrow of the Ch’ing Dynasty. It was the greatest crisis in the long reign of T’zǔ-hsi, the Empress Dowager.
37In 1898 the Empress Dowager had reigned, defacto, under the form of successive ‘regencies’ for thirty-seven years. A member of the Manchu clan of Yehonala, chosen as concubine of the third class for the young Hsien-fêng Emperor, she had found herself, at his early death in 1861, in exile and defeat at Jehol, suddenly within reach of political power: for she was the mother of the heir to the throne, now five years old. At the time of the Hsien-fêng Emperor’s death, the court was in convulsion. There was foreign invasion, palace conspiracy, and internal rebellion. But by prompt and ruthless action, and with the support of her Manchu kinsman Jung-lu, who was to become her constant adviser, T’zǔ-hsi prevailed over all opposition and established her first regency. Theoretically it was a joint regency with the late emperor’s legitimate widow, ‘the Eastern Empress’ Hsiao-chên, and of course it was limited to twelve years, till her son, the new T’ung-chih Emperor, should be of age. But the Eastern Empress was a cypher, and when the twelve years were up, T’zǔ-hsi, having tasted power, was not disposed to abandon it. The opportune death of her son, the equally opportune suicide of his pregnant widow, and some careful dispositions of force, enabled her to procure the succession of another infant emperor, and for herself a second regency. The new emperor was her nephew, Tsai-t’ien, who now reigned as the Kuang-hsü Emperor. In due course he too came of age, but T’zü-hsi contrived to ensure that this did not make much difference – at least until the summer of 1898.
For by 1898 China had suffered a series of humiliating defeats at the hands of the imperialist powers both of the West and of the East. The Russians had imposed their control over Manchuria, the French had seized Indo-China, the Japanese had detached Korea and Formosa, and all the Western powers had set foot in the seaports. Shaken by these disasters, and by the clear evidence that the Celestial Empire was no longer an independent power, Chinese patriots and intellectuals, 38 especially in the south, where Manchu rule had seldom been appreciated, had looked for the cause of decay and discovered it in the corruption of the court. The defeat by Japan in 1894 had been the last humiliation, because Japan, in Chinese eyes, was a barbarian country, a cultural dependency of China. But the Japanese victory also offered a lesson. If an Eastern society could become powerful by borrowing Western methods, China could be regenerated too, by the same means. So there arose, in southern China, and particularly in Canton, the Young China movement of Reform – reform on a Western model, or at least by the adoption of Western methods. By 1898 the reformers had a party in the imperial palace, and they saw their opportunity in palace politics. They resolved to capture the puppet Kuang-hsü Emperor and to encourage him to emancipate himself, as their ally, from the archaic and indeed illegitimate despotism of his old aunt and her irreparably corrupt court.
For a brief period they succeeded. The docile Kuang-hsü Emperor accepted his role. Decree after, decree was issued, reform after reform set out. The ancient system of education and examination was abolished. Modern subjects, a modern university, were authorized. Sinecures in the armed forces and in the state were to be abolished. So were the special privileges of the Manchus as a ruling caste. The fleet was to be reorganized, industries promoted, Western technology and means of communication introduced. It was even rumoured that the palace was to be drastically purged, the eunuch system abolished, the empire itself nationalized, and the Empress Dowager quietly removed from power. Such projects naturally caused alarm among those whose vested interests were at stake, and they rallied, in self-defence, round the threatened Empress Dowager. They were lucky in that treason came to their aid. Yuan Shih-k’ai, Judicial Commissioner of Chih-li, the general on whom the reformers relied, and who had pledged his loyalty and obedience to the 39Emperor, promptly revealed all their plans to the Empress’s confidant, the Grand Secretary Jung-lu. It was an act of treachery that would be of great significance. Its immediate effect was no less important. Thus alerted, the old lady showed once again that she could strike first. By a bold coupde main the Emperor was arrested, imprisoned, and forced ‘spontaneously’ to beg his aunt to resume the functions of Empress-regent. Only the warnings of the Western diplomatic corps, and particularly of the British Minister, Sir Claude Macdonald, saved him from execution. His life was spared, but it was clear that unless he should survive his formidable aunt (which for that very reason seemed unlikely) he would never be a force in politics again. ‘The Hundred Days’ of reform were over. The third regency of the Empress Dowager had begun.
Almost immediately, she had to cope with a new threat. 1898 had been the year of the pro-Western enthusiasts, of the progressive Young China reformers. 1899 was the year of the anti-Western fanatics, of the reactionary ‘Boxers’. Throughout that year, in province after province, the Boxer movement gathered strength. Its leaders declared themselves invincible, even invulnerable; they claimed magical powers; and they appealed to Chinese patriots to rise and destroy the foreigners, their missions, their religion, their innovations, their ideas. By the end of the year the movement had become so powerful that the imperial court had to face the problem which it posed. Should it oppose the Boxer movement and thus appear to be the creature of the foreign powers which were destroying the Chinese empire? Or should it declare itself the patron of the movement and use this new and seemingly powerful force to emancipate both China and itself from the domination of those foreign powers?
The party of reaction at court naturally supported the latter course, and three of the imperial princes openly allied themselves with the Boxers. One of them, Tsai-i (Prince Tuan), 40became the new confidant of the Empress, the director of her policy. On 24 January 1900, the Empress showed her support for the Boxers by appointing Tsai-i’s eldest son, P’u-chun, as heir apparent: heir not to the reigning Kuang-hsü Emperor but to his predecessor, her son, the T’ung-chih Emperor. Clearly the deposition of the unsatisfactory Kuang-hsü Emperor was intended – if the Boxers should win. By the summer of 1900 it seemed that the Boxers might well win, provided that the imperial government acted quickly to forestall Allied intervention.
For already a foreign expeditionary force was preparing to intervene. In mid-June the crisis came to a head. Almost simu ltaneously, the Allies occupied the coastal forts at Taku, which commanded the entry to Tientsin and the route to Peking, and the Empress and Tsai-i connived at the entry of the Boxer army into Peking. The opposition at court was overruled, and foreign envoys were ordered to leave the city. Next day the German Minister, Baron von Ketteler, was murdered. While the Allied powers protested and assembled their forces to strike, the Boxers took over the city and a massacre of foreigners and Chinese Christians began.
