Thank You, Mr. Moto Read online

  “Please,” I said to Boldini and then I was a part of the dance. I was holding her in my arms, quite impersonally, in a close conventional embrace. She smiled at me quickly—even teeth, firm chin, brown eyes that sparkled as she smiled, dark brown hair.

  “Hello,” she said, “I haven’t seen you for a long while.”

  “I don’t go out much,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “I know you don’t.” She glanced at me sidewise. “You’re rather eccentric, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Everyone gets eccentric who stays out here for a while. I am tired of dancing. Are you?”

  “But you’ve just started dancing,” she said. “You can’t be tired.”

  “I mean I’d like to talk to you,” I said.

  “I’ve often wondered if you ever would,” she answered. “You’ve had chances enough. I wonder what makes you want to now.”

  “Well,” I said, “it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “No,” she said, “but I am very flattered, really. I suppose you think you’re being nice, don’t you?”

  “No,” I said, “not very. I was standing there and I began to think about you, that’s all.”

  We sat down in two chairs beside a lotus pool a few yards away from the terrace.

  “What were you thinking about me?” she asked.

  “Rather impertinent things,” I said. She looked hard at me through the dusk.

  “I suppose you talk to everyone this way,” she remarked. “I don’t mind it really. Well, what were you thinking?”

  “I was wondering what brought you here,” I said. “If one stays here long enough one wonders that about all sorts of people. There must be something here you like because you’ve stayed.”

  She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the sky.

  “I like the world,” she said. “I left home to see the world.”

  “Have you seen it?” I asked.

  “Quite a good deal,” she said, “but not enough. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “No reason,” I said. “It isn’t even unusual as long as your family doesn’t mind.”

  She smiled at me. “As a matter of fact, they don’t approve of it,” she said. “I rather thought you would. Why shouldn’t I? Men see the world. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And now you’re tired of seeing it? You’re trying to get away from it now. Well, I’m not tired. I never will be.”

  “Probably not,” I told her. “If you call this seeing the world, but you’d get tired if you really saw it. As it is, you’ll only get into trouble. That’s what always happens to a girl who wanders about indefinitely alone.”

  Miss Joyce looked at me again. Her lips curled up faintly.

  “Are you going to protect me, Mr. Nelson?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking of that—not this afternoon.”

  “What were you thinking of?” she asked. I offered her a cigarette and took one myself.

  “I was thinking if you really must get into trouble, Miss Joyce,” I said, “that you’d do very well to get into trouble with me.”

  Miss Joyce tapped the end of her cigarette delicately. Her face was vague in the growing dusk but I saw that she was amused.

  “That’s very delicately put,” she said. “I suppose you know what the answer ought to be.”

  “Yes,” I said. “The answer is ‘Thank you very much Mr. Nelson, but I am quite able to look out for myself.’ That isn’t the real answer, of course. It’s just as well it isn’t.”

  “You’re not being very polite?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, “I don’t suppose I am, but it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “Then you might as well go on,” she said. “Why do you think I might refuse?”

  There seemed just then no harm in being frank and perhaps I felt that it might do her good. There was something about her poise and complete assurance that made me wish to puncture it.

  “You’re too. careful, I suppose,” I said. “You have an instinct for self-preservation which will keep you on nice boats and with nice people until you find a vice-president of a reputable trust company to marry. In the meanwhile, you can see the world, a somewhat antiseptic world where there will be no malaria or tropical diseases, where there will be personally conducted tours to interesting places and where the latest style of dress is always available. By the way, that’s a most successful dress you’re wearing now, Miss Joyce.”

  She dropped her cigarette on the grass and stepped on it. “Do you really think I’m like that?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “rather, but it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “I wish,” she said and her voice was sharper, “that you wouldn’t use that phrase again.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s too much like you, Mr. Nelson,” she said. “I should rather be like the person you think I am than like the person I think you are.”

  “Go ahead,” I answered. “It’s only fair to give me your opinion. What sort of a person do you think I am?”

  “Rather undesirable,” she said. “An American gone native. I’ve seen them in Paris and I’ve seen them here. We can’t stand change of environment. Now an Englishman keeps his own world about him.”

  “Oh quite,” I said. “Jolly well so, like Major Best. The war was won on the playing fields of Eton.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It was. Not by crawling into a corner on a small income and allowing oneself to be pampered by Chinese servants, and allowing everything to drift by and becoming immersed in Chinese culture.”

  “You know a good deal about me,” I said.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Everyone talks about nothing except personalities here. You’re finished, Mr. Nelson. Pretty soon the Chinese dogs won’t growl at you any more. I’ve begun but I hope I won’t end in the way you have.”

  “I’m sure you won’t,” I said. “The dogs will always take you for an American girl, but it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  I used the phrase unconsciously. I had never thought of myself as being finished until she had spoken.

  “You’re probably right,” I added, “but I’d rather finish here than anywhere else in the world.”

  “Yes,” she said, “It’s decorative and comfortable.” Then she looked up. Someone had moved in front of us and I knew the talk was over. Mr. Moto was standing bowing.

  “Do you know Mr. Moto?” asked Miss Joyce.

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Moto, “oh yes. Mr. Nelson and I are very good friends. He has been talking to you about his book perhaps.”

  “No,” I answered, “not exactly. I’ll never finish that book. Miss Joyce knows I won’t.”

  Mr. Moto bowed to her. “Perhaps Miss Joyce would care to dance,” he said. Miss Joyce looked at me and smiled.

  “It’s a way to see the world,” she answered. “I should be delighted, Mr. Moto.”

  Chapter 3

  Time of late years had begun to move past me easily. Day elided smoothly with the night, and I had begun to accept the fact, with a subtle sort of resignation which was not unpleasant. I had been restless once. I had struggled against time. I had had desires. I had filled my days with activities which could not be encompassed by hours, but the timelessness of that city where tradition and where the past mingled indefinably with the present, where the modern phrase of politeness was an apology for disturbing one’s neighbor’s chariot, had made me broad-minded about time. I looked at my watch and found without surprise that the hour was getting on to half past eight. A middle-aged Chinese in a long black robe spoke to me—Prince Tung. He spoke in the birdlike, bell-like tones of his native tongue, every phrase perfect, every gesture a mirror of etiquette, that made my conversation with Eleanor Joyce, which was still running through my mind, seem crude and nakedly barbarous.

  “You have not been lately to my poor house,” he said. “I have missed you. Th
ere are the crickets; you have not seen the crickets.”

  His words brought me back to the other side of my life which touched upon China. It brought me back to a world which was shifting, enigmatic, fascinating. It was a world which was dying perhaps but one which I respected. It was a brutal world, a merciless world, but one which was inconceivably cultivated and polite, with a cultivation that rose above sordidness and disrepair and above the annoyances of the present. I admired Prince Tung intensely and was proud that he honored me with a casual friendship. Prince Tung came of a Manchu family which had been powerful at court in the days of the Empire. He had seen the Forbidden City as a boy and could describe the great days vividly. Like most of the Manchus he had been improvident with money and now he gave evidence of being very poor. He was withdrawn from politics; he spent most of his time in part of his ruined palace, near the northern gate of the city, writing poetry on scrolls with his brushes, but his tastes were catholic and foreigners amused him: If his amusement was contemptuous, his manner never showed it. He had an ingrained politeness, cultivated by a slavish childhood study of the classics.

  “You are amused, my master?” I said to him.

  “Yes,” said Prince Tung. “I am diverted. Your people always divert me. I say this to you because you will understand, too well perhaps for your own good.”

  Prince Tung smiled and placed his delicate hands inside his sleeves.

  “That young woman you were speaking to, for instance. I never can understand. Is she well-bred?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Decidedly so, I think.”

  “Well,” said Prince Tung. “That is very interesting. I never can understand.”

  “We were talking together frankly,” I told him. “She told me I was finished.”

  He did not grasp my meaning at first and I had difficulty in explaining the phrase in Chinese.

  “Oh,” said Prince Tung. “At length I see. What is your honorable age? I have forgotten.”

  “Thirty-four,” I said.

  “Then she is very nearly right,” said Prince Tung. “You should have sons by now who are grown to men. Personally I was married at fifteen and besides I have had six concubines. My family is large and I no longer worry. You should have your birds and your walks and conversations. You should no longer worry.”

  “I don’t very much,” I said.

  “Very much is not adequate,” said Prince Tung. “For example, I will tell you something. Things are very bad in the city to-day. A merchant, one of my best friends, has sent several boxes for safekeeping to the Legation bank this afternoon. I shall do the same to-morrow, but I am not worried.”

  “What things are very bad?” I asked. I knew he would not answer me when I asked him for he never liked a direct question.

  “It is nothing,” he said. “It has been said also that certain persons who frequently concoct trouble are about. The country is being clawed again by the barbarians. It is bitter that we are living through the period of turmoil which invariably follows the conclusion of a dynasty. These times have always been uncomfortable but they will pass.”

  “Are you worried about your property?” I asked.

  Prince Tung smiled again. “I have never worried about my property,” he said. “There is nothing I can do.” His reply did not exasperate me as it might have a few years back.

  “But you have friends, you have influence,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” said Prince Tung. “Until the time arises. One can never tell.”

  Then I heard Major Best calling me. His voice was clipped and matter-of-fact and reassuring.

  “I say, Nelson,” he called. “Are you ready now?”

  The last red glow of the sunset was on the street outside. The ricksha lamps were lighted. Major Best laid his hand on my arm. I felt his fingers on the sleeve of my coat, closing on my arm, more tightly than was necessary.

  “I say,” said Best. “Did that Prince Tung Johnny say anything to you?”

  “He said things were bad in the city,” I answered. “Why?”

  I heard the Major draw in a deep breath and he dropped my arm.

  “I saw a man in the street to-day,” he said. “I can tell a Chinese face in a crowd. He saw me too. I hope he didn’t know I knew him.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because my life wouldn’t be worth tuppence,” said Major Best. “Come. We’ve time for a spot of whiskey before dinner.”

  I looked at him, not particularly startled, for one deals in exaggerations so often that they do not mean much. I have heard plenty of people say that their lives would not be worth tuppence if they did not arrive in time at the Jones’ party. I looked at Jameson Best and I could not see his face clearly. Then I remembered that Peking is probably the safest city in the world.

  Chapter 4

  Our rickshas padded through the gate of the wall of the Legation Quarter and turned right and then left, on Hatamen Street. It was broad like all the streets of North Chinese cities. Police with revolvers in olive drab uniforms were directing the traffic. The open fronts of shops were squares of light. The Chinese characters above their doorways were dim above them, and Hatamen Street was a river of sound. The falsetto chant of Chinese voices and Chinese laughter erased the disturbing thoughts that were in my mind. Eleanor Joyce had said that I was finished, but her voice no longer bothered me, for it was lost in that sea of other voices, in that surge of humanity about us. The smell of Chinese cooking came pleasantly to my nostrils. There was a broad tolerance emanating from that conglomeration of sounds and smells that gave me a love for the city of Peking. It was a noble city with its walls and avenues, its hidden temples and its palaces. It was a city of the imagination, a city of the spirit falling into a dreamlike ruin; falling into memories as fantastic as the figures on a Chinese scroll; always changing but never changed.

  There was that realization, comforting and complete, that the high grey walls of the Tartar City were guarding us; that the pavilioned towers above the gates were staring out into the night, warding off the evil spirits from an uncertain world outside. The walls were shutting out the clamor of South China, the floods and the starvation of the Yellow River and the sinister vacancy of the mountain passes that stretched northward like huge steps, beyond the ancient Great Wall to the Mongolian Plateau. Peking was designed by its builders to resist evil fortune. Even its straightest streets had occasional eccentric curves designed to break the dangers of symmetry. The courtyards of its houses were designed so that only harmonious spirits should enter and, on the whole, everything had been done well.

  For many years Jameson Best had used Peking as a starting point for his travels and had kept a small house there on one of those innumerable narrow alleys, so characteristic of this city, which are bounded by high courtyard walls, each alley so like the next as to be as indistinguishable to the stranger as the features of the Chinese race. Jameson Best’s house had once been a single courtyard in one of those labyrinthian palaces of the old regime, that had once covered several acres of ground in a series of courts and buildings and gardens. The gates and the walls leading to further courts of that old palace had been bricked up long ago, so that Jameson Best’s dwelling was securely shut off into a single unit of an entrance court with servants’ quarters, ending in a low building which was a dining room and reception room. This opened in turn into a small garden surrounded by tiled roofed buildings, containing the Major’s bedroom, his store room and his library. Our ricksha coolies shouted at some pedestrians who made way for us in the narrow alley. We jolted over ruts, the legacy of last week’s rain.

  “We’ll have our drinks in the study,” Major Best said. The study was a long room with carved, painted beams supported by red wooden pillars. There were bookcases along the wall, containing a good collection of Orientalia. Some animals’ heads and several of the Major’s rifles were above the books, and also a Chinese painting on silk of a tiger—snarling and ready to spring. On the floor were several tiger skins. The Major
waved me to a wicker armchair and his servant brought in a tray with whiskey and glasses. Major Best stood and lifted his highball glass. He was smiling, but those pale grey eyes of his seemed to be staring at nothing.

  “Cheerio!” he said, then turned and looked about the room as though he expected to find something wrong. Apparently he did not.

  “I’ve always liked this room,” I said.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Snug, isn’t it?” And he glanced carefully at the paper covered windows.

  I watched him, wondering why it was I did not wholly like him and why I was never comfortable with him. I attributed this uneasiness to his eyes and to the perpetual coldness of his glance. It was his eyes that made him ugly. As he stood with his back to the snarling tiger on the wall I could understand the urge that made him hunt and travel. He had the proper quietness, just the requisite coldness and just the precise physique. I reminded myself again that he would not have asked me without a definite reason. Then in the midst of sipping my whiskey I discovered that he had entirely forgotten me. He was still standing looking at the window so intently that he started when I spoke.