During the next few days Francis rigorously shunned the merchant’s quarter of the city. More than his pride had been hurt. He listened in silence while Joseph gossiped of the remarkable progress of little Yu, of the largesse distributed by Mr Chia to the wise physicians, the donation to the Temple of Lao-tzu, for exorcising the demon which had troubled his beloved son. ‘Is it not truly remarkable, dear Father, how many sources have benefited by the mandarin’s noble generosity?’
‘Truly remarkable,’ said Father Chisholm dryly, but wincing.
A week later, when about to close his dispensary after a stale and profitless afternoon, he suddenly observed, across the flask of permanganate he had been mixing, the discreet apparition of Mr Chia.
He started hotly, but said nothing. The merchant wore his finest clothes: a rich black satin robe with yellow jacket, embroidered velvet boots in one of which was thrust the ceremonial fan, a fine flat satin cap, and an expression both formal and dignified. His too-long fingernails were protected by gold metal cases. He had an air of culture and intelligence, his manners expressed perfect breeding. There was a gentle, enlightened melancholy on his brow.
‘I have come,’ he said.
‘Indeed!’ Francis’ tone was not encouraging. He went on stirring with his glass rod, mixing the mauve solution.
‘There have been many matters to attend to, much business to settle. But now,’ – a resigned bow, – ‘I am here.’
‘Why?’ Shortly, from Francis.
Mr Chia’s face indicated mild surprise. ‘Naturally … to become a Christian.’
There was a moment of dead silence – a moment which, traditionally, should have marked the climax of these meagre toiling months, the thrilling first fruits of the missionary’s achievement: here, the leading savage, bowing the head for baptism. But there was little exultation in Father Chisholm’s face. He chewed his lips crossly, then he said slowly: ‘ Do you believe?’
‘No!’ Sadly.
‘Are you prepared to be instructed?’
‘I have not time to be instructed. A subdued bow. ‘I am only eager to become a Christian.’
‘Eager? You mean you want to?’
Mr Chia smiled wanly. ‘ Is it not apparent – my wish to profess your faith?’
‘No, it is not apparent. And you have not the slightest wish to profess my faith. Why are you doing this?’ The priest’s colour was high.
‘To repay you,’ Mr Chia said simply. ‘You have done the greatest good to me. I must do the greatest good for you.’
Father Chisholm moved irritably. Because the temptation was so alluring, because he wished to yield and could not, his temper flared. ‘It is not good. It is bad. You have neither inclination nor belief. My acceptance of you would be a forgery for God. You owe me nothing. Now please go!’
At first Mr Chia did not believe his ears.
‘You mean you reject me?’
‘That is putting it politely,’ growled Father Chisholm.
The change in the merchant was seraphic. His eyes brightened, glistened, his melancholy dropped from him like a shroud. He had to struggle to contain himself; but although he had a semblance of desiring to leap into the air he did contain himself. Formally, he made the kowtow three times. He succeeded in mastering his voice.
‘I regret that I am not acceptable. I am of course most unworthy. Nevertheless, perhaps in some slight manner …’ He broke off, again he made the kowtow three times and, moving backwards, went out.
That evening, as Father Chisholm sat by the brazier with a sternness of countenance which caused Joseph, who was cooking tasty river mussels in his rice, to gaze at him timidly, there came the sudden sound of firecrackers. Six of Mr Chia’s servants were exploding them, ceremoniously, in the road outside. Then Mr Pao’s cousin advanced, bowed, handed Father Chisholm a parchment wrapped in vermilion paper.
‘Mr Chia begs that you will honour him by accepting this most unworthy gift – the deeds of the Brilliant Green Jade property with all land and water rights and the rights to the crimson clay-pit. The property is yours, without restraint, forever. Mr Chia further begs that you accept the help of twenty of his workmen till any building you may wish to carry out is fully accomplished.’
So completely taken aback was Francis he could not speak a word. He watched the retreating figure of the cousin of Mr Pao, and of Mr Chia, with a strange still intensity. Then he wildly scanned the title deeds and cried out joyfully. ‘Joseph! Joseph!’
Joseph came hurrying, fearing another misfortune had befallen them. His master’s expression reassured him. They went together to the Hill of Brilliant Green Jade and there, standing under the moon amidst the tall cedars, they sang aloud the Magnificat.
Francis remained bare-headed, seeing in a vision what he would create on his noble brow of land. He had prayed with faith, and his prayer had been answered.
Joseph, made hungry by the keen wind, waited uncomplainingly, finding his own vision in the priest’s rapt face, glad he had shown the presence of mind to take his rice-pot from the fire.
IV
Eighteen months later, in the month of May, when all Chek-kow province lay basking in that span of short perfection between the winter snows and the swelterings of summer, Father Chisholm crossed the paved courtyard of his new Mission of St Andrew.
Never, perhaps, had such a sense of quiet contentment suffused him. The crystal air, where a cloud of white pigeons wheeled, was sweet and sparkling. As he reached the great banyan tree which, through his design, now shaded the forecourt of the mission, he threw a look across his shoulder, partly of pride, part wry wonderment, as though still apprehensive of a mirage which might vanish overnight.
But it was there, shining and splendid: the slender church sentinelled between the cedars, his house, vivid with scarlet lattices, adjoining the little schoolroom, the snug dispensary opening through the outer wall, and a further dwelling screened by the foliage of pawpaw and catalpa, which sheltered his freshly planted garden. He sighed, his lips smiling blessing the miracle of the fruitful clay-pit which had yielded, through many blendings and experimental bakings, bricks of a lovely soft pale rose, making his mission a symphony in cinnabar. He blessed, indeed, each subsequent wonder: the implacable kindness of Mr Chia; the skilful patience of his workers: the incorruptibility – almost complete – of his sturdy foreman; even the weather, this recent brilliant spell, which had made his opening ceremony, held last week and politely attended by the Chia and Pao families, a notable success.
For the sole purpose of viewing the empty classroom he took the long way round: peering, like a schoolboy, through the window at the brand new pictures upon the whitewashed wall, at the shining benches which, like the blackboard, he had carpentered himself. The knowledge that his handiwork was in that particular room lay warmly round his heart. But recollection of the task he had in mind drove him to the end of the garden where, near the lower gate, and beside his private workshop, was a small brick kiln.
Happily, he jettisoned his old soutane and, in stained denim trousers, shirt sleeves and suspenders, he took a wooden spade and began to puddle-up some clay.
Tomorrow the three Sisters would arrive. Their house was ready – cool, curtained, already smelling of beeswax. But his final conceit, a secluded loggia in which they might rest and meditate, was not quite finished, demanding at last another batch of bricks from his own especial oven. As he shaped the marl he shaped the future in his mind.
Nothing was more vital than the advent of these nuns. He had seen this from the outset, he had worked and prayed for it, sending letter upon letter to Father Mealey and even to the Bishop, while the mission slowly rose before his eyes. Conversion of the Chinese adult was, he felt, a labour for archangels. Race, illiteracy, the tug of an older faith – these were formidable barriers to break down honestly, and one knew that the Almighty hated being asked to do conjuring tricks with each individual case. True, now that he was sustained in ‘face’ by his fine new church, increasin
g numbers of repentant souls were adventuring to mass. He had some sixty persons in his congregation. As their pious cadences ascended at the Kyrie it sounded quite a multitude.
Nevertheless, his vision was focused, brightly, on the children. Here, quite literally, children went two for a penny. Famine, grinding poverty, and the Confucianism of masculine perpetuation made female infants, at least, a drug upon the market. In no time at all he would have a schoolful of children, fed and cared for by the Sisters, here in the mission, spinning their hoops, making the place gay with laughter, learning their letters and their catechism. The future belonged to the children: and the children … his children … would belong to God!
He smiled self-consciously at his thoughts as he shoved the moulds into the oven. He could not call himself, precisely, a ladies’ man. Yet he had hungered, these long months, amidst this alien race, for the comfort of intercourse with his own kind. Mother Maria-Veronica, though Bavarian by birth, had spent the past five years with the Bon Secours in London. And the two whom she led, the French Sister Clotilde and Sister Martha, a Belgian, had equal experience in Liverpool. Coming direct from England they would bring him, at least, a friendly breath of home.
A trifle anxiously – for he had taken enormous trouble – he reviewed his preparations for their arrival on the following day: A few fireworks in the best Chinese style, but not enough to alarm the ladies, at the river landing stage, where the three best chairs in Pai-tan would await them. Tea served immediately they reached the mission. A short rest followed by benediction – he hoped they would like the flowers – and then, a special supper.
He almost chuckled as he conned, in his mind’s eye, the menu of that supper. Well … they’d get down to hardtack soon enough, poor things! His own appetite was scandalously meagre. During the building of the mission he had subsisted abstractedly, standing on scaffolds, or fingering a plan with Mr Chia’s foreman, upon rice and bean curd. But now he had sent Joseph scouring the city for mangos, chowchow and, rarest delicacy of all, fresh bustard from Shon-see in the North.
Suddenly, across the meditation, came the sound of footsteps. He lifted his head. As he turned, the gate was thrown open. Signed forward by their guide, a ragged riverside coolie, three nuns appeared. They were travel-stained, with a vague uneasiness in their uncertain glances. They hesitated, then advanced wearily up the garden path. The foremost, about forty years of age, had both dignity and beauty. There was high breeding in the fine bones of her face and in her wide heavy blue eyes. Pale with fatigue, impelled by a kind of inward fire, she forced herself on. Barely looking at Francis, she addressed him in fair Chinese.
‘Please take us immediately to the mission, Father.’
Dreadfully put out at their obvious distress, he answered in the same tongue.
‘You were not expected till tomorrow.’
‘Are we to return to that dreadful ship?’ She shivered with continued indignation. ‘Take us to your master at once.’
He said slowly, in English: ‘I am Father Chisholm.’
Her eyes, which had been searching the mission buildings, returned incredulously to his short shirt-sleeved figure. She stared with growing dismay at his working clothes, dirty hands and caked boots, the smear of mud across his cheek. He murmured awkwardly: ‘I’m sorry … most distressed you weren’t met.’
For a moment her resentment mastered her. ‘ One might have supposed some welcome at the end of six thousand miles.’
‘But you see … the letter said quite definitely –’
She cut him short with a repressed gesture.
‘Perhaps you will show us to our quarters. My companions’ – with a proud negation of her own exhaustion – ‘are completely worn out.’
He was about to make a final explanation, but the sight of the two other Sisters, staring and very frightened, restrained him. He led the way in painful silence to their house. Here he stopped.
‘I hope you will be comfortable. I will send for your baggage. Perhaps … perhaps you will dine with me tonight.’
‘Thank you. It is impossible.’ Her tone was cold. Once again her eyes, holding back haughty tears, touched his disreputable garments. ‘But if we could be spared some milk and fruit … tomorrow we shall be fit for work.’
Subdued and mortified, he returned slowly to his house, bathed and changed. From amongst his papers he found and carefully examined the letter from Tientsin. The date given was May 19th, which, as he had said, was tomorrow. He tore the letter into little pieces. He thought of that fine, that foolish bustard. He flushed. Downstairs he was confronted by Joseph, bubbling with spirits, his arms full of purchases.
‘Joseph! Carry the fruit you have bought to the Sisters’ house. Take everything else and distribute it to the poor.’
‘But, Master …’ Stupefied at the tone of the command, the expression on the priest’s face, Joseph swallowed rapidly; then, his jubiliation gone, he gulped: ‘Yes, Master.’
Francis went towards the church, his lips compressed as though they sealed an unexpected hurt.
Next morning the three Sisters heard his mass. And he hurried, unconsciously, through his thanksgiving, hoping to find Mother Maria-Veronica awaiting him outside. She was not there. Nor did she come, for her instructions, to his house. An hour later he found her writing in the schoolroom. She rose quietly.
‘Please sit down, Reverend Mother.’
‘Thank you.’ She spoke pleasantly. Yet she continued to stand, pen in hand, notepaper before her on the desk. ‘I have been waiting on my pupils.’
‘You shall have twenty by this afternoon. I’ve been picking them for many weeks.’ He strove to make his tone light and agreeable. ‘They seem intelligent little things.’
She smiled gravely. ‘We shall do our utmost for them.’
‘Then there is the dispensary. I am hoping you will assist me there. I’ve very little knowledge – but it’s amazing what even a little does here.’
‘If you will tell me the dispensary hours I shall be there.’
A brief silence. Through her quiet civility, he felt her reserve deeply. His gaze, downcast, moving awkwardly, lit suddenly upon a small framed photograph which she had already established on the desk.
‘What a beautiful scene!’ He spoke at random, striving to break the impersonal barrier between them.
‘Yes, it is beautiful.’ Her heavy eyes followed his to the picture of a fine old house, white and castellated against a dark wall of mountain pines, with a sweep of terraces and gardens running down towards the lake. ‘It is the Schloss Anheim.’
‘I have heard that name before. It is historic, surely. It is near your home?’
She looked at him for the first time straight in the face. Her expression was completely colourless. ‘Quite near,’ she said.
Her tone absolutely closed the subject. She seemed to wait for him to speak, and when he did not she said, rather quickly –
‘The sisters and I … we are most earnest in our desire to work for the success of the mission. You have only to mention your wishes and they will be carried out. At the same time –’ Her voice chilled slightly. ‘I trust you will afford us a certain freedom of action.’
He stared at her oddly. ‘ What do you mean?’
‘You know our rule is partly contemplative. We should like to enjoy as much privacy as possible.’ She gazed straight in front of her. ‘Take our meals alone … maintain our separate establishment.’
He flushed. ‘I never dreamed of anything else. Your little house is your convent.’
‘Then you permit me to manage all our convent affairs.’
Her meaning was quite plain to him. It settled like a weight upon his heart. He smiled, unexpectedly, rather sadly.
‘By all means. Only be careful about money. We are very poor.’
‘My order has made itself responsible for our support.’
He could not resist the question. ‘Does not your order enforce holy poverty?’
‘Yes,’ s
he gave back swiftly, ‘but not meanness.’
There was a pause. They remained standing side by side. She had broken off sharply, with a catch in her breath, her fingers tight upon the pen. His own face was burning; he had a strange reluctance to look at her.
‘I will send Joseph with a note of the dispensary hours … and of church services. Good morning, Sister.’
When he had gone she sat down, slowly, at the desk, her gaze still fixed ahead, her expression proudly unreadable. Then a single tear broke and rolled mysteriously down her cheek. Her worst forebodings were justified. Passionately, almost, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and resumed her letter.
‘… It has happened, already, as I feared, my dear, dear brother, and I have sinned again in my dreadful … my ineradicable Hohenlohe pride. Yet who could blame me? He has just been here, washed free of earth and approximately shaved – I could see the scrubby razor cuts upon his chin – and armed with such a dumb authority. I saw instantly, yesterday, what a little bourgeois it was. This morning he surpassed himself. Were you aware, dear count, that Anheim was historic? I almost laughed as his eyes fumbled at the photograph: you remember the one I took from the boathouse that day we went sailing with Mother on the lake – it’s gone with me everywhere – my sole temporal treasure. He said, in effect, “Which Cook’s tour did you take to view it?” I felt like saying, “ I was born there!” My pride restrained me. Yet had I done so he would probably have kept on gazing at his boots, still creviced with mud, where he had failed to clean them – and muttered: “ Oh, indeed! Our Blessed Lord was born in a stable.”
‘You see, there is something about him which strikes at one. Do you recollect Herr Spinner, our first tutor … we were such brutes to him … and the way he had of looking up suddenly with such hurt, yet humble restraint? His eyes, here, are the same. Probably his father was a woodcutter like Herr Spinner’s, and he too has struggled up, precariously, with dogged humility. But, dear Ernst, it is the future that I dread, shut up in this strange and isolated spot which intensifies every aspect of the situation. The danger is a lowering of one’s inborn standards, yielding to a kind of mental intimacy with a person one instinctively despises. That odious familiar cheerfulness! I must drop a hint to Martha and Clotilde – who has been such a poor sick calf all the way from Liverpool. I am resolved to be pleasant and to work myself to the bones. But only complete detachment, an absolute reserve, will…’