Tribulations of a Chinaman in China E-Book

Jules Verne.

• Herausgeber: Jazzybee Verlag
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 303

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Jules Verne has written, and Virginia Champlin translated, The Tribulations of a Chinaman in China, which is, as a matter of course, highly amusing and absurd. The scenes are laid in a country not often chosen in fiction, and the plan is as novel as it is preposterous. Nobody but this extravagant and irresponsible author would have been likely to have executed such a piece of work. To give the plot would be to spoil it: enough to say that the hero, Kin-fo, who is young, rich, handsome, and about to be married, is also tired of living, and after insuring his life for a hundred years at an immense sum, covering all risks, even of suicide, decides to kill himself that his betrothed and his friend Wang may have the money, but changing his mind agrees with the latter on assassination. Afterwards concluding that he will live, he hunts China over in search of Wang, who has disappeared, two of the company's agents going with him. Their adventures, in which a phonograph and Paul Boyton's armor have an important part, are the wildest conceivable, but all ends well, and Kin-fo, turned philosopher after his vicissitudes, sees that only those who know "how to appreciate life " are fit to live. Jules Verne has evidently "read up" China to good purpose, for there is a great amount of information, down to minute points of etiquette and ways of living, and the descriptions of Chinese matters, geographical, political, and social, are accurate and interesting.

Leseprobe

The Tribulations Of A Chinaman In China

Jules Verne

Contents:

Jules Verne – A Biographical Primer

The Tribulations Of A Chinaman In China

Chapter I.

Chapter II.

Chapter III.

Chapter IV.

Chapter V.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VII.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter IX.

Chapter X.

Chapter XI.

Chapter XII.

Chapter XIII.

Chapter XIV.

Chapter XV.

Chapter XVI.

Chapter XVII.

Chapter XVIII.

Chapter XIX.

Chapter XX.

Chapter XXI.

Chapter XXII.

The Tribulations Of A Chinaman In China, J. Verne

Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck

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ISBN: 9783849645823

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Frontcover: © Can Stock Photo Inc. / Angelique

Jules Verne – A Biographical Primer

Jules Verne (1828–1905), French author, was born at Nantes on the 8th of February 1828. After completing his studies at the Nantes lycée, he went to Paris to study for the bar. About 1848, in conjunction with Michel Carré, he wrote librettos for two operettas, and in 1850 his verse comedy, Les Pailles rompues, in which Alexandre Dumas fils had some share, was produced at the Gymnase. For some years his interests alternated between the theatre and the bourse, but some travellers’ stories which he wrote for the Musée des Familles seem to have revealed to him the true direction of his talent—the delineation, viz., of delightfully extravagant voyages and adventures to which cleverly prepared scientific and geographical details lent an air of versimilitude. Something of the kind had been done before, after kindred methods, by Cyrano de Bergerac, by Swift and Defoe, and later by Mayne Reid. But in his own particular application of plausible scientific apparatus Verne undoubtedly struck out a department for himself in the wide literary genre of voyages imaginaires. His first success was obtained with Cinq semaines en ballon, which he wrote for Hetzel’s Magazin d’Éducation in 1862, and thenceforward, for a quarter of a century, scarcely a year passed in which Hetzel did not publish one or more of his fantastic stories, illustrated generally by pictures of the most lurid and sensational description.The most successful of these romances include: Voyage au centre de la terre (1864); De la terre à la lune (1865); Vingt mille lieues sous les mers (1869); Les Anglais au pôle nord (1870); and Voyage autour du monde en quatre-vingts jours, which first appeared in Le Temps in 1872.The adaptation of this last (produced with success at the Porte St Martin theatre on the 8th of November 1874) and of another excellent tale, Michael Strogoff (at the Châtelet, 1880), both dramas being written in conjunction with Adolphe d’Ennery, proved the most acceptable of Verne’s theatrical pieces. The novels were translated into the various European languages—and some even into Japanese and Arabic—and had an enormous success in England. But after 1877, when he published Hector Servadac, a romance of existence upon a comet, the writer’s invention began to show signs of fatigue (his kingdom had been invaded in different directions and at different times times by such writers as R. M. Ballantyne, Rider Haggard and H. G. Wells), and he even committed himself, somewhat unguardedly, to very gloomy predictions as to the future of the novel. Jules Verne’s own novels, however, will certainly long continue to delight readers by reason of their sparkling style, their picturesque verve—apparently inherited directly from Dumas—their amusing and good-natured national caricatures, and the ingenuity with which the love element is either subordinated or completely excluded. M. Verne, who was always extremely popular in society, divided his time for the most part between Paris, his home at Amiens and his yacht. He was a member of the Legion of Honour, and several of his romances were crowned by the French Academy, but he was never enrolled among its members. He died at Amiens on the 24th of March 1905. His brother, Paul Verne, contributed to the Transactions of the French Alpine Club, and wrote an Ascension du Mont Blanc for his brother’s collection of Voyages extraordinaires in 1874.

The Tribulations Of A Chinaman In China

Chapter I.

IN WHICH THE PECULIARITIES AND NATIONALITY OF THE PERSONAGES ARE GRADUALLY REVEALED.

“It must be acknowledged, however, that there is some good in life,” observed one of the guests, who, leaning his elbow on the arm of his chair with a marble back, sat nibbling a root of a sugar water-lily.

“And evil also,” added another, between two spells of coughing, having been nearly strangled by the prickles of the delicate fin of a shark.

“Let us be philosophers,” then said an older person, whose nose supported an enormous pair of spectacles with broad glasses affixed to wooden bows. “To-day one comes near strangling, and to-morrow every thing flows smoothly as the fragrant draughts of this nectar. This is life, after all.”

After these words, this easily pleased epicure swallowed a glass of excellent warm wine, whose light vapor was slowly escaping from a metal teapot.

“For my part,” continued a fourth guest, “existence seems very acceptable whenever one does nothing, and has the means which enable him to do nothing.”

“You mistake,” quickly replied the fifth: “happiness is in study and work. To acquire the greatest possible amount of knowledge is the way to render one’s self happy.”

“And to learn, when you sum it all up, that you know nothing.”

“Is not that the beginning of wisdom?”

“But What is the end?”

“Wisdom has no end,” philosophically answered the man with spectacles. “To have common sense would be supreme satisfaction.”

Upon this the first guest directly addressed the host, who occupied the upper end of the table,—that is, the poorest place,—as the rules of politeness require. With indifference and inattention the latter listened silently to this discussion inter pocula.

“Come, let us hear what our host thinks of this rambling talk over the wine-cup? Does he find existence a blessing, or an evil? Is it yes, or no?

The host carelessly munched several watermelon-seeds, and for answer merely pouted his lips scornfully, like a man who seems to take interest in nothing.

“Pooh!” said he.

This is a favorite word with indifferent people, for it means every thing and nothing. It belongs to all languages, and must have a place in every dictionary on the globe, and is an articulated pout.

The five guests whom this ennuyé was entertaining then pressed him with arguments, each in favor of his own proposition; for they wished to have his opinion. He at first tried to avoid answering, but finally asserted that life was neither a blessing nor an evil: in his opinion, it was an “invention,” rather insignificant, and, in short, not very encouraging.

“Ah! now our friend reveals himself.”

“How can he speak thus, when his life has been as smooth as an unruffled rose-leaf?”

“And he so young!”

“Young and in good health!”

“In good health, and rich.”

“Very rich.”

“More than very rich.”

“Too rich perhaps.”

These remarks followed each other like rockets from a piece of fireworks, without even bringing a smile to the host’s impassive face. He only shrugged his shoulders slightly, like a man who has never wished, even for an hour, to turn over the leaves in the book of his own life, and has not so much as cut the first pages.

And yet this indifferent man was thirty-one years at most; was in wonderfully good health; possessed a great fortune, a mind that did not lack culture, an intelligence above the average; and had, in short, every thing, which so many others have not, to make him one of the happy of this world. And why was he not happy?

“Why?”

The philosopher’s grave voice was now heard, speaking like a leader of a chorus of the early drama.

“Friend,” he said, “if you are not happy here below, it is because, till now, your happiness has been only negative. With happiness as with health: to enjoy it, one should be deprived of it occasionally. Now, you have never been ill. I mean you have never been unfortunate: it is that which your life needs. Who can appreciate happiness if misfortune has never even for a moment assailed him?”

And at this remark, which was stamped with wisdom, the philosopher, raising his glass, full of champagne of the best brand, said,—

“I wish some shadow to fall athwart our host’s sunlight, and some sorrows to enter his life.” Saying which, he emptied his glass at one swallow.

The host made a gesture of assent, and again lapsed into his habitual apathy.

Where did this conversation take place? In a European dining-room, in Paris, London, Vienna, or St. Petersburg?

Were these six companions conversing together in a restaurant in the Old or New World? And who were they, who, without having drunk more than usual, were discussing these questions in the midst of a repast?

Certainly they were not Frenchmen, because they were not talking politics.

They were seated at a table in an elegantly decorated saloon of medium size. The last rays of the sun were streaming through the network of blue and orange window-panes, and past the open windows the evening breeze was swinging garlands of natural and artificial flowers; and a few variegated lanterns mingled their pale light with the dying gleams of day. Above the windows were carved arabesques, enriched with varied sculpture, and representing celestial and terrestrial beauty, and animals and vegetables of a strange fauna and flora.

On the walls of the saloon, which were hung in silken tapestry, were shining broad, double-bevelled mirrors; and on the ceiling a “punka,” moving its painted percale wings, rendered the temperature endurable.

The table was a vast quadrilateral of black lacquer-work, and, being uncovered, reflected the numerous pieces of silver and porcelain as a slab of the purest crystal might have done. There were no napkins, only simple squares of ornamented paper, a sufficient supply of which was furnished each guest. Around the table stood chairs with marble backs, far preferable in this latitude to the covering of modern furniture.

The attendants were very prepossessing young girls, in whose black hair were mingled lilies and chrysanthemums, and round whose arms bracelets of gold and jade were coquettishly wound. Smiling and sprightly, they served or removed dishes with one hand, while with the other they gracefully waved a large fan, which restored the currents of air displaced by the punka on the ceiling.

The repast left nothing to be desired. One could not imagine any thing more delicate than the cooking, which was both neat and artistic; for the Bignon of the place, knowing that he was catering to connoisseurs, surpassed himself in the preparation of the five hundred dishes which composed the menu.

In the first course there were sugared cakes, caviare, fried grasshoppers, dried fruits, and oysters from Ning-po. Then followed, at short intervals, poached eggs of the duck, pigeon, and lapwing; swallows’ nests with buttered eggs; fricasees of “ging-seng;” stewed sturgeons’ gills; whales’ nerves with sugar sauce; fresh-water tadpoles; a ragout of the yolks of crabs’ eggs, sparrows’ gizzards, and sheeps’ eyes pierced with a pointed bit of garlic for flavoring; ravinoli* prepared with the milk of apricot-stones; a stew of holothuria. Bamboo-shoots in their juice, sugared salads of young roots, pine-apples from Singapore, roasted earth-nuts, salted almonds, savory mangoes, fruits of the “long-yen” with white flesh, and “li-tchi” with pale pulp, water caltrops, and preserved Canton oranges composed the last course of a repast which had lasted three hours,—a repast largely watered with beer, champagne, Chao Chigne wine; and the inevitable rice, which, placed between the lips of the guests by the aid of chop-sticks, was to crown at dessert the wisely arranged bill of fare.

The moment came at last for the young girls to bring, not those bowls of European fashion which contain a perfumed liquid, but napkins saturated with warm water, which each of the guests passed over his face with extreme satisfaction.

It was, however, only an entr’acte of the repast,—an hour of far niente, whose moments were to be filled with music; for soon a troupe of singers and instrumentalists entered the saloon. The singers were pretty young girls of modest appearance and behavior. What music and method was theirs!—a mewing and clucking without measure or tunefulness, rising in sharp notes to the utmost limit of perception by the auditory nerves. As for the instruments, there were violins whose strings became entangled in those of the bow, guitars covered with serpents’ skins, screeching clarinets, and harmonicas resembling small portable pianos; and all worthy of the songs and the singers, to whom they formed a noisy accompaniment.

The leader of this discordant orchestra presented the programme of his repertoire as he entered; and at a motion from the host, who gave him carte blanche, his musicians played the “Bouquet of Ten Flowers,”—a piece very much in the mode at the time, and the rage in fashionable society.

Then the singing and performing troupe, having been well paid in advance, withdrew, carrying with them many a bravo, with which they would yet reap a rich harvest in the neighboring saloons.

The six companions then left their seats, but only to pass from one table to another, which movement was accompanied with great ceremony and compliments of all kinds.

On this second table each found a small cup with a lid ornamented with a portrait of Bôdhidharama, the celebrated Buddhist monk, standing on his legendary raft. Each received a pinch of tea, which he steeped in the boiling water in his cup, and drank almost immediately without sugar.

And what tea! It was not to be feared either that the house of Gibb-Gibb & Co., who furnished it, had adulterated it with a mixture of foreign leaves; or that it had already undergone a first infusion, and was only good to use in sweeping carpets; or that an unscrupulous preparer had colored it yellow with curcuma, or green with Prussian blue. It was imperial tea in all its purity, and was composed of those precious leaves of the first harvest in March which are similar to the flower itself, and are seldom gathered; for loss of its leaves causes the death of the plant. It was composed of those leaves which young children alone, with carefully gloved hands, are allowed to cull.

A European could not have found words of praise in number sufficient to extol this beverage, which the six companions were slowly sipping, without going into ecstasies, like connoisseurs who were used to it; but, it must be confessed, they were really unable to appreciate the delicacy of the excellent concoction. They were gentlemen of the best society, richly dressed in the “han-chaol,”—a light under-waistcoat; the “macoual,”—a short tunic; and the “haol,”—a long robe, buttoning at the side. They wore yellow sandals and open-work hose; silk pantaloons, fastened at the waist with a tasselled sash; and a plastron of fine embroidered silk on their bosom, and a fan at their waist. These amiable persons were born in the same country where the tea-plant once a year produces its harvest of fragrant leaves. This repast, in which swallows’ nests, fish of the holothurian species, whales’ nerves, and sharks’ fins appeared, was partaken of as the delicacy of the viands deserved; but its menu, which would have astonished a foreigner, did not surprise them in the least. But what did surprise them was the statement which their host made to them, as they were at last about to leave the table, and from which they understood why he had entertained them that day.

The cups were still full, and the indifferent gentleman, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, and his elbow leaning on the table, was about to empty his cup for the last time, when he expressed himself in these words:—

“My friends, listen to me without laughing. The die is cast. I am about to introduce into my life a new element, which perhaps will dispel its monotony. Will it be a blessing, or a misfortune? The future only can tell. This dinner, to which I have invited you, is my farewell dinner to bachelor life. In a fortnight I shall be married, and”—

“And you will be the happiest of men,” cried the optimist. “Behold! all the signs are in your favor.”

In fact, the lamps flickered, and cast a pale light around; the magpies chattered on the arabesques of the windows; and the little tea-leaves floated perpendicularly in the cups. So many lucky omens could not fail.

Therefore all congratulated their host, who received these compliments with the most perfect composure. But, as he did not name the person destined to the rôle of “new element,” and the one whom he had chosen, no one was so indiscreet as to question him on the subject.

But the philosopher’s voice did not mingle in the general concert of congratulations. With his arms crossed, his eyes partly closed, and an ironical smile on his lips, he seemed to approve those complimenting no more than he did the one complimented.

The latter then rose, placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and, in a voice that seemed less calm than usual, asked,—

“Am I, then, too old to marry?”

“No.”

“Too young?”

“No: neither too young nor too old.”

“Do you think I am doing wrong?”

“Perhaps so.”

“But she whom I have chosen, and with whom you are acquainted, possesses every quality necessary to make me happy.”

“I know it.”

“Well?”

“It is you who have not all that is necessary to make you so. To be bored single in life is bad, but to be bored double is worse.”

“Then I shall never be happy?”

“No: not so long as you do not know what misfortune is.”

“Misfortune cannot reach me.”

“So much the worse; for then you are incurable.”

“Ah! these philosophers!” cried the youngest of the guests. “One should not listen to them. They are machines with theories. They manufacture all kinds of theories, which are trash, and good for nothing in practice. Get married,—get married, my friend! I should do the same, had I not made a vow never to do any thing. Get married; and, as our poets say, may the two phoenixes always appear to you tenderly united! Friends, I drink to the happiness of our host.”

“And I,” responded the philosopher, “drink to the near interposition of some protecting divinity, who, in order to make him happy, will cause him to pass through the trial of misfortune.”

At this odd toast the guests arose, brought their fists together as boxers do before beginning a contest, and, having alternately lowered and raised them while bowing their heads, took leave of each other.

From the description of the saloon in which this entertainment was given, and the foreign menu which composed it, as well as from the dress of the guests, with their manner of expressing themselves,—perhaps, too, from the singularity of their theories,—the reader has surmised that we have had to do with the Chinese; not with those “Celestials” who look as if they had been unglued from a Chinese screen, or had escaped from a pottery vase where they properly belonged, but with the modern inhabitants of the Celestial Empire, already Europeanized by their studies, voyages, and frequent communication with the civilized people of the West.

Indeed, it was in the saloon of one of the flower-boats on the River of Pearls at Canton that the rich Kin-Fo, accompanied by the inseparable Wang the philosopher, had just entertained four of the best friends of his youth,—Pao-Shen, a mandarin of the fourth class, and of the order of the blue button; Yin-Pang, a rich silk-merchant in Apothecary Street; Tim, the high liver; and Houal, the literary man.

And this took place on the twenty-seventh day of the fourth moon, during the first of those five periods which so poetically divide the hours of the Chinese night.

Translator’s Note.—An Italian dish, a compound of vermicelli, eggs, cheese, and green herbs, prepared in the form of fritters.

Chapter II.

IN WHICH KIN-FO AND THE PHILOSOPHER ARE MORE FULLY DESCRIBED.

The reason why Kin-Fo gave a farewell dinner to his Canton friends was because he passed a part of his youth in the capital of the province of Kuang-Tung. Of the numerous comrades a wealthy and generous young man is sure to have, the only ones left him at this time were the four guests who were present on the flower-boat. It would have been useless for him to have tried to bring the others together, as they were scattered by the various accidents of life.

Kin-Fo lived in Shanghai, and, being worn out with ennui, was now for a change spending a few days in Canton. This evening he intended to take the steamboat which stops at several points along the coast, and return quietly home to his yamen.

The reason that Wang accompanied Kin-Fo was because the philosopher could never leave his pupil, who did not want for lessons; though, to tell the truth, he paid no heed to them, and they were just so many maxims and wise sayings lost. The “theory-machine,” however, as Tim the high liver called him, was never weary of producing them.

Kin-Fo was a perfect type of the northern Chinese, whose race is being transformed, and who have never united with the Tartars. He was of a stamp differing from that usually found in the southern provinces, where the high and low classes are more intimately blended with the Mandshurian race: he had not a drop of Tartar blood in his veins, neither from father nor mother, whose ancestors kept secluded after the conquest.

He was tall, well built, fair rather than yellow; with straight eyebrows, and eyes following the horizontal, and but slightly raised towards the temple; with a straight nose, and a face that was not flat. He would have been distinguished even among the finest specimens of Western people.

Indeed, if Kin-Fo appeared at all like a Chinaman, it was because of his carefully shaved skull; his smooth, hairless brow and neck; and his magnificent braid, which started at the back of his head, and rolled down like a serpent of jet. He was very careful about his person, and wore a delicate mustache, which made a half-circle over his upper lip; and an imperial, which was exactly like a rest in musical notation. His nails were more than a centimetre long, a proof that he belonged to those fortunate men who are not obliged to work. Perhaps, too, his careless walk and haughty bearing added still more to the comme il faut appearance of his whole person.

Besides, Kin-Fo was born at Pekin, an advantage of which the Chinese are very proud. To any one who would have asked him where he came from, he would have answered proudly, “I come from above.”

His father, Tchoung-Heou, was living at Pekin when he was born; and he was six years old when the former settled at Shang-hai.

This worthy Chinaman, who came from a fine family in the northern part of the empire, like all his compatriots, had a remarkable capacity for business. During the first years of his career, he bartered and sold every thing that the rich and populous territory produces; such as paper goods from Swatow, silks from Soo-Choo, sugar-candy from Formosa, tea from Han-kow and Fou-chow, iron from Ho-nan, and red and yellow copper from the province of Yunnan. His principal business-house, his “hong,” was at Shang-hai; but he had branch establishments at Nankin, Tien-sing, Macao, and Hong-Kong. As he was a close follower of European progress, he shipped his goods on English steamers, and kept himself informed by cablegram of the state of the silk and opium market at Lyons and Calcutta. He was not opposed to these agents of progress, steam and electricity, as are the majority of the Chinese, who are under the influence of mandarins and the government, whose prestige is gradually being lessened by progress.

In short, Tchoung-Heou managed so shrewdly in his business in the interior of the empire, as well as in his transactions with Portuguese, French, English, or American houses, in Shanghai, Macao, and Hong-Kong, that, when Kin-Fo came into the world, his fortune exceeded four hundred thousand dollars; and, during the years that followed, this capital was doubled, on account of the establishment of a new traffic, which might be called the “coolie trade of the New World.”

It is well known that the population of China is in excess, and out of all proportion to the vast extent of the territory, which is poetically divided into the various names of Celestial Empire, Central Empire, and Empire or Land of Flowers.

Its inhabitants are estimated at not less than three hundred and sixty million, which is almost a third of the population of the earth. Now, little as the Chinaman eats, he nevertheless eats; and China, even with its numerous rice-fields, and extensive cultivation of millet and wheat, does not provide enough to nourish him. Hence there are more inhabitants than can be cared for; and their only desire is to escape through some of the loopholes which the English and French cannon have made in the moral and material walls of the Celestial Empire.

This surplus has poured into North America, and principally into the State of California, but in such multitudes that Congress has been obliged to take restrictive measures against the invasion, which is rather impolitely called “the yellow pest.” As was observed, fifty million Chinese emigrants in the United States would not have sensibly diminished the population of China, and it would have brought about a blending with the Anglo-Saxon race, to the benefit of the Mongolian.

However this may be, the exodus was conducted on a large scale. These coolies, living on a handful of rice, a cup of tea, and a pipe of tobacco, and apt at all trades, met with remarkably quick success in Virginia, Salt Lake, Oregon, and, above all, the State of California, where they greatly reduced the wages of manual labor.

Companies were then formed for the transportation of these inexpensive emigrants; and there were five which had charge of the enlisting in the five provinces of the Celestial Empire, and a sixth which was stationed at San Francisco. The former shipped, and the latter received, the merchandise; while an additional agency, called the Ting-Tong, re-shipped them.

This requires an explanation.

The Chinese are very willing to expatriate themselves to seek their fortune with the “Melicans,” as they call the people of the United States, but on one condition, that their bodies shall be faithfully brought back, and buried in their native land. This is one of the principal conditions of the contract,—a sine qua non clause, which is binding on these companies with regard to the emigrant, and cannot be eluded.

Therefore the Ting-Tong—or, in other words, the Agency of the Dead, which draws its funds from private sources—is charged with freighting the “corpse steamers,” which leave San Francisco fully loaded for Shanghai, Hong-Kong, or Tien-Sing. Here was a new business, and a new source of profit, which the shrewd and enterprising Tchoung-Heou foresaw. At the time of his death, in 1866, he was a director in the Kouang-Than Company in the province of that name, and sub-director of the Treasury for the Dead in San Francisco.

Kin-Fo, having neither father nor mother, was heir to a fortune valued at four million francs, invested in stock in the Central Bank in California, and which he had the good sense to let remain there.

When he lost his father, the young heir, who was nineteen years old, would have been alone in the world, had it not been for Wang, the inseparable Wang, who filled the place of mentor and friend.

But who was this Wang? For seventeen years he had lived in the yamen at Shanghai, and was the guest of the father before he became that of the son. But where did he come from? What was his past? All these somewhat difficult questions Tchoung-Heou and Kin-Fo alone could have answered; and if they had considered it proper to do so, which was not probable, this is what one would have learned from them:—

No one is unaware that China, is, par excellence, the kingdom where insurrections last many years, and carry off hundreds of thousands of men. Now, in the seventeenth century, the celebrated dynasty of Ming, of Chinese origin, had been in power in China three hundred years, when, in 1644, the chief, feeling too weak to resist the rebels who threatened the capital, asked aid of a Tartar king.

The king, who did not need to be entreated, hastened to his assistance, drove out the rebels, and profited by the situation to overthrow him who had implored his aid, and proclaimed his own son, Chun-Tche, emperor.

From this period the Tartar rule was substituted for that of the Chinese, and the throne was occupied by Mandshurian emperors.

The two races, especially among the lower classes, gradually came together; but among the rich families of the north they did not mingle. Therefore the type still retains its characteristics, particularly in the centre of the western provinces of the empire. There the “irreconcilables” who remained faithful to the fallen dynasty took refuge.

Kin-Fo’s father was one of the latter; and he did not belie the traditions of his family, who refused to enter into compact with the Tartars. A rebellion against the foreign power, even after a rule of three hundred years, would have found him ready to join it. It is unnecessary to add that his son, Kin-Fo, fully shared his political opinions.

Now, in 1860, there still reigned that emperor, S’Hiene-Fong, who declared war against England and France,—a war ended by the treaty of Pekin on the 25th of October of the same year.

But before that date a formidable uprising threatened the reigning dynasty. The Tchang-Mao, or the Tai-ping,—the “long-haired rebels,”—took possession of Nankin in 1853, and Shanghai in 1855. After S’Hiene-Fong’s death, his son had great difficulty in repulsing the Tai-ping. Without the Viceroy Li, and Prince Kong, and especially the English Colonel Gordon, he, perhaps, would not have been able to save his throne.

The Tai-ping, the declared enemies of the Tartars, being strongly organized for rebellion, wished to replace the dynasty of the Tsing for that of the Wang. They formed four distinct armies,—the first, under a black banner, appointed to kill; the second, under a red banner, to set fire; the third, under a yellow banner, to pillage; and the fourth, under a white banner, to provision the other three.

There were important military operations in Kiang-Sou; and Soo-Choo and Kia-Hing, five leagues distant from Shanghai, fell into the power of the rebels, and were recovered, not without difficulty, by the imperial troops.

Shang-hai, which had been seriously threatened, was also attacked on the 18th of August, 1860, at the time that Gens. Grant and Montauban, commanding the Anglo-French army, were cannonading the forts of Pei-ho.

Now, at this time, Tchoung-Heou, Kin-Fo’s father, was living near Shanghai, not far from the magnificent bridge thrown across the river by Chinese engineers at Sou-Choo. He disapproved of this rebellion of the Tai-ping, since it was chiefly directed against the Tartar dynasty.

This, then, was the state of affairs when, on the evening of the 18th of August, after the rebels had been driven out of Shang-hai, the door of Tchoung-Heou’s house suddenly opened, and a fugitive, having dodged his pursuers, came to throw himself at the feet of Tchoung-Heou. The unfortunate man had no weapon with which to defend himself; and, if he to whom he came to ask for shelter had given him up to the imperial soldiers, he would have been killed.

Kin-Fo’s father was not the man to betray a Tai-ping who sought refuge in his house; and he closed the door, and said,—

“I do not wish to know, and I never shall know, who you are, what you have done, or whence you come. You are my guest, and for that reason only will be perfectly safe at my house.”

The fugitive tried to speak to express his gratitude, but scarcely had strength.

“Your name?” asked Tchoung-Heou.

“Wang.”

It was Wang indeed, saved by Tchoung-Heou’s generosity,—a generosity which would have cost the latter his life if any one had suspected that he was giving an asylum to a rebel. But Tchoung-Heou was like one of those men of ancient times with whom every guest is sacred.

A few years later the uprising of the rebels was forever repressed. In 1864 the Tai-ping chief, who was besieged at Nankin, poisoned himself to escape falling into the hands of the Imperials.

Wang, ever since that day, had remained in his benefactor’s house. He was never obliged to say any thing about his past; for no one questioned him. Perhaps they feared they might hear too much. The atrocities committed by the rebels were frightful, it was said; and under what banner Wang had served,—the yellow, red, black, or white,—it was better to remain in ignorance, and to fancy that he belonged only to the provisioning column.

Wang, however, was delighted with his lot, and continued to be the guest of this hospitable house. After Tchoung-Heou’s death, his son, being so accustomed to the amiable man’s company, would never be parted from him.

But, in truth, at the time when this story begins, who would have ever recognized a former Tai-ping, a murderer, plunderer, or incendiary from choice, in this philosopher of fifty-five years, this moralist in spectacles, playing the part of Chinaman, with eyes drawn towards the temples, and with the traditional mustache? With his long robe of a modest color, and a waist rising towards his chest from a growing obesity; with his headdress regulated according to the imperial decree,—that is to say, with a fur hat with the rim raised around the crown, from whence streamed tassels of red cord,—did he not look the worthy professor of philosophy, and one of those savants who write fluently in the eighty thousand characters of Chinese handwriting, and like a littérateur of the superior dialect receiving the first prize in the examination of doctors, with the right to pass under the grand gate at Pekin, which is an honor reserved for the Sons of Heaven?

Perhaps, after all, the rebel, forgetting a past full of horror, had improved by contact with the honest Tchoung-Heou, and had gradually branched off to the road of speculative philosophy.

That is why, on this evening, Kin-Fo and Wang, who never left each other, were together at Canton, and why, after this farewell dinner, both were going along the wharves to seek a steamer to take them quickly to Shang-hai.

Kin-Fo walked on in silence, and even somewhat thoughtfully. Wang, looking round to the right and to the left, philosophizing to the moon and the stars, passed smilingly under the Gate of Eternal Purity, which he did not find too high for him, and under the Gate of Eternal Joy, whose doors seemed to open on his own existence, and finally saw the Pagoda of the Five Hundred Divinities vanishing in the distance.

The steamer “Perma” was under full steam. Kin-Fo and Wang went on board, and entered the cabins reserved for them. The rapid current of the River of Pearls, which daily bears along the bodies of those condemned to death with the mud from its shores, carried the boat swiftly onward. It sped like an arrow between the ruins made by French cannon, and left standing here and there; past the pagoda Haf-Way, nine stories high; and past Point Jardyne, near Whampoa, where the large ships anchor, between the islands and the bamboo palisades of the two shores.

The one hundred and fifty kilometres—that is to say, the three hundred and seventy-five leagues which separate Canton from the mouth of the river—were travelled in the night.