by A. J. Cronin
He prayed, he prayed most desperately. He ardently believed in the efficacy of prayer. ‘Oh God, you’ve helped me in the past. Help me now, for God’s sake, please.’
He had hours of raging fury. Why had they sent him, with plausible assurances, to this outlandish hole? The task was beyond any man, beyond God Himself! Cut from all communications, buried in the hinterland, with the nearest missioner, Father Thibodeau, at Sen-siang, four hundred miles away, the place was quite untenable.
Fostered by the Wangs, the popular hostility towards him increased. He was used to the jeers of the children. Now, on his passage through the town, a crowd of young coolies followed, throwing out insults. When he stopped a member of the gang would advance and perform his natural functions in the vicinity. One night, as he returned to the stable, a stone sailed out of the darkness and struck him on the brow.
All Francis’combativeness rose hotly in response. As he bandaged his broken head, his own wound gave him a wild idea, making him pause, rigid and intent. Yes … he must … he must get closer to the people … and this … no matter how primitive … this new endeavour might help him to that end.
Next morning, for two extra taels a month, he rented the lower back room of the shop from Hung and opened a public dispensary. He was no expert – God knew. But he had his St John’s certificate, and his long acquaintance with Dr Tulloch had grounded him soundly in hygiene.
At first no one ventured near him; and he sweated with despair. But gradually, drawn by curiosity, one or two came in. There was always sickness in the city and the methods of the native doctors were barbaric. He had some success. He exacted nothing in money or devotion. Slowly his clientèle grew. He wrote urgently to Dr Tulloch, enclosing Polly’s five pounds, clamouring for an additional supply of dressings, bandages, and simple drugs. While the chapel remained empty the dispensary was often full.
At night, he brooded frantically amongst the ruins of the mission. He could never rebuild on that eroded site. And he gazed across the way in fierce desire at the pleasant Hill of Brilliant Green Jade where, above the scattered temples, a lovely slope extended, sheltered by a grove of cedars. What a noble situation for a monument to God!
The owner of this property, a civil judge named Pao, member of that inner intermarried community of merchants and magistrates who controlled the city’s affairs, was rarely to be seen. But on most afternoons his cousin, a tall dignified mandarin of forty, who managed the estate for Mr Pao, came to inspect and to pay the labourers who worked the clay-pits in the cedar grove.
Worn by weeks of solitude, desolate and persecuted, Francis was undoubtedly a little mad. He had nothing! He was nothing. Yet one day, on an impulse, he stopped the tall mandarin as he crossed the road towards his chair. He did not understand the impropriety of this direct approach. In fact he knew little of what he did: he had not been eating properly, and was lightheaded from a touch of fever.
‘I have often admired this beautiful property which you so wisely administer.’
Taken wholly by surprise, Mr Pao’s cousin formally viewed the short alien figure with its burning eyes, and the soiled bandage on its forehead. In frigid politeness he bore with the priest’s continued assaults upon the syntax, briefly deprecated himself, his family, his miserable possessions, remarked on the weather, the crops, and the difficulty the city had experienced last year in buying off the Wai-Chu bandits; then pointedly opened the door of his chair. When Francis, with swimming head, strove to return the conversation to the Green Jade land, he smiled coldly.
‘The Green Jade property is a pearl without price, in extent more than sixty mous … shade, water, pasture … in addition a rich and extraordinary clay-pit for the purpose of tiles, pottery and bricks. Mr Pao has no desire to sell. Already, for the estate, he has refused … fifteen thousand silver dollars.’
At the price, ten times greater than his most fearful estimate, Francis’ legs shook. The fever left him, he suddenly felt weak and giddy, ashamed at the absurdity into which his dreams had led him. With splitting head, he thanked Mr Pao’s cousin, muttered a confused apology.
Observing the priest’s disappointed sadness, the lean, middle-aged, cultured Chinese allowed a flicker of disdain to escape his watchful secrecy.
‘Why does the Shang-Foo come here? Are there no wicked men to regenerate in his own land? For we are not wicked people. We have our own religion. Our own gods are older than his. The other Shang-foo made many Christians by pouring water from a little bottle upon dying men and singing “ Ya … ya!” Also, by giving food and clothing, to many more who would sing any tune to have their skins covered and their bellies full. Does the Shang-Foo wish to do this also?’
Francis gazed at the other in silence. His thin face had a worn pallor, there were deep shadows beneath his eyes. He said quietly: ‘Do you think that is my wish?’
There was a strange pause. All at once, Mr Pao’s cousin dropped his eyes.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, in a low tone. ‘I did not understand. You are a good man.’ A vague friendliness tinctured his compunction. ‘I regret that my cousin’s land is not available. Perhaps in some other manner I may assist you?’
Mr Pao’s cousin waited with a new courtesy, as if anxious to make amends. Francis thought for a moment, then asked heavily: ‘Tell me, since we are being honest … Are there no true Christians here?’
Mr Pao’s cousin answered slowly: ‘Perhaps. But I should not seek them in Pai-tan.’ He paused. ‘I have heard, however, of a village in the Kwang Mountains.’ He made a vague gesture towards the distant peaks. ‘A village Christian for many years … but it is far away, many many li from here.’
A gleam of light shot into the haggard gloom of Francis’ mind.
‘That interests me deeply. Can you give me further information?’
The other shook his head regretfully. ‘It is a small place on the uplands – almost unknown. My cousin only learned of it from his trade in sheepskins.’
Francis’ eagerness sustained him. ‘ Could you procure directions for me … perhaps a map?’
Mr Pao’s cousin reflected, then nodded gravely. ‘It should be possible. I shall ask Mr Pao. Moreover I shall be careful to inform him that you have spoken with me in a most honourable fashion.’
He bowed and went away.
Overwhelmed with this wholly unexpected hope, Francis returned to the ruined compound where, with some blankets, a water-skin and a few utensils purchased in the town, he had made his primitive encampment. As he prepared himself a simple meal of rice, his hands trembled, as from shock. A Christian village! He must find it – at all costs. It was his first sense of guidance, of divine inspiration, in all these weary, fruitless months.
As he sat tensely thinking in the dusk he was disturbed by a hoarse barking of crows, fighting and tearing at some carrion by the water’s edge. He went over at length, to drive them off. And there, as the great ugly birds flapped and squawked at him, he saw their prey to be the body of a newly born female child.
Shuddering, he took up the infant’s torn body from the river, saw it to be asphyxiated, thrown in and drowned. He wrapped the little thing in linen, buried it in a corner of the compound. And as he prayed he thought: yes, despite my doubts, there is need for me, in this strange land, after all.
II
Two weeks later, when the early summer burgeoned, he was ready. Placing a painted notice of temporary closure on his premises in Netmaker Street, he strapped a pack of blankets and food upon his back, took up his umbrella and set off briskly on foot.
The map given by Mr Pao’s cousin was beautifully executed, with wind-belching dragons in the corners and a wealth of topgraphic detail as far as the mountains. Beyond it was sketchy, with little drawings of animals instead of place names. But from their conversations and his own sense of direction Francis had in his head a fair notion of his route. He set his face towards the Kwang Gap.
For two days the journey lay through easy country, the green wet rice-field
s giving place to woods of spruce, where the fallen needles made a soft resilient carpet for his feet. Immediately below the Kwangs he traversed a sheltered valley aflame with wild rhododendrons, and later that same dreamy afternoon, a glade of flowering apricots whose perfume prickled the nostrils like the fume of sparkling wine. Then he began the steep ascent of the ravine.
It grew colder with every step up the narrow stony track. At night he folded himself under the shelter of a rock, hearing the whistle of the wind, the thunder of snow-water in the gorge. In the daytime, the cold blazing whiteness of the higher peaks burned his eyes. The thin iced air was painful to his lungs.
On the fifth day he crossed the summit of the ridge, a frozen wilderness of glacier and rock, and thankfully descended the other side. The pass led him to a wide plateau, beneath the snowline, green with verdure, melting into softly rounded hills. These were the grasslands of which Mr Pao’s cousin had spoken.
Thus far the sheer mountains had defined his twisted course. Now he must rely on Providence, a compass and his good Scots sense. He struck out directly towards the west. The country was like the uplands of his home. He came on great herds of stoic grazing goats and mountain sheep that streamed off wildly at his approach. He caught the fleeting image of a gazelle. From the bunch-grass of a vast dun marsh thousands of nesting ducks rose screaming, darkening the sky. Since his food was running low, he filled his satchel gratefully with the warm eggs.
It was trackless, treeless plain: he began to despair of stumbling on the village. But early on the ninth day when he felt he must soon turn back, he sighted a shepherd’s hut, the first sign of habitation since he’d left the southern slopes. He hastened eagerly towards it. The door was sealed with mud, there was no one inside. But as he swung round, his eyes sharp with disappointment, he saw a boy approaching over the hill behind his flock.
The young shepherd was about seventeen, small and wiry, like his sheep, with a cheerful and intelligent face now caught between wonderment and laughter. He wore short sheepskin trousers and a woollen cape. Round his neck was a small bronze Yuan cross, wafer-thin with age and roughly scratched with the symbol of a dove. Father Chisholm gazed from the boy’s open face to the antique cross in silence. At last he found his voice and greeted him, asking if he were from the Liu village.
The lad smiled. ‘I am from the Christian village. I am Liu-Ta. My father is the village priest.’ He added, not to be thought boasting, ‘One of the village priests!’
Again, there was silence. Father Chisholm thought better of questioning the boy further. He said: ‘I have come a long distance, and I too am a priest. I should be grateful if you would take me to your home.’
The village lay in an undulating valley five li farther to the westward, a cluster of some thirty houses, tucked away in this fold of the uplands, surrounded by little stone-walled fields of grain. Prominent, upon a central hillock, behind a queer conical mound of stones shaded by a ginkgo tree, was a small stone church.
As he entered the village the entire community immediately surrounded him men, women, children and dogs, all crowding round in curiosity and excited welcome, pulling at his sleeves, touching his boots, examining his umbrella with cries of admiration, while Ta threw off a rapid explanation in a dialect he could not understand. There were perhaps sixty persons in the throng, primitive and healthy, with naive, friendly eyes and features that bore the imprint of their common family. Presently, with a proprietary smile, Ta brought forward his father Liu-Chi, a short and sturdy man of fifty with a small grey beard, simple and dignified in his manner.
Speaking slowly, to make himself understood, Liu-Chi said: ‘We welcome you with joy, Father. Come to my house and rest a little before prayer.’
He led the way to the largest house, built on a stone foundation next the church, and showed Father Chisholm, with courteous urbanity, into a low cool room. At the end of the room stood a mahogany spinet and a Portuguese wheel clock. Bewildered, lost in wonder, Francis stared at the clock. The brass dial was engraved: Lisbon 1632.
He had no time for closer inspection, Liu-Chi was addressing him again, ‘Is it your wish to offer mass, Father? Or shall I?’
As in a dream Father Chisholm nodded his head towards the other. Something within him answered: ‘ You … please!’ He was groping in great confusion. He knew he could not rudely break this mystery with speech. He must penetrate it graciously, in patience, with his eyes.
Half an hour later they were all within the church. Though small it had been built with taste in a style that showed the Moorish influence on the Renaissance. There were three simple arcades, beautifully fluted. The doorway and the windows were supported by the flat pilasters. On the walls, partly incomplete, free mosaics had been traced.
He sat in the front row of an attentive congregation. Every one had ceremonially washed his hands before entering. Most of the men and a few of the women wore praying caps upon their heads. Suddenly a tongueless bell was struck and Liu-Chi approached the altar, wearing a faded yellow alb and supported by two young men. Turning, he bowed ceremoniously to Father Chisholm and the congregation. Then the service began.
Father Chisholm watched, kneeling erect, spellbound, like a man beholding the slow enactment of a dream. He saw now that the ceremony was a strange survival, a touching relic of the mass. Liu-Chi must know no Latin, for he prayed in Chinese. First came the confiteor, then the creed. When he ascended the altar and opened the parchment missal on its wooden rest, Francis clearly heard a portion of the gospel solemnly intoned in the native tongue. An original translation … He drew a quick breath of awe.
The whole congregation advanced to take communion. Even children at the breast were carried to the altar steps. Liu-Chi descended, bearing a chalice of rice wine. Moistening his forefinger he placed a drop upon the lips of each.
Before leaving the church, the congregation gathered at the Statue of the Saviour, placing lighted joss-sticks on the heavy candelabrum before the feet. Then each person made three prostrations and reverently withdrew.
Father Chisholm remained behind, his eyes moist, his heart wrung by the simple childish piety – the same piety, the same simplicity he had so often witnessed in peasant Spain. Of course this ceremony was not valid – he smiled faintly, visualizing Father Tarrant’s horror at the spectacle – but he had no doubt it was pleasing to God Almighty none the less.
Liu-Chi was waiting outside to conduct him to the house. There a meal awaited them. Famished, Father Chisholm did full justice to the stew of mountain mutton – little savoury balls floating in cabbage soup – and the strange dish of rice and wild honey which followed. He had never tasted such a delicious sweet in all his life.
When they had both finished, he began tactfully to question Liu-Chi. He would have bitten out his tongue rather than give offence. The gentle old man answered trustingly. His beliefs were Christian, quite childlike and curiously mingled with the traditions of Tâo-tê. Perhaps, thought Father Chisholm, with an inward smile, a touch of Nestorianism thrown in for value …
Chi explained that the faith had been handed down from father to son through many generations. The village was not dramatically isolated from the world. But it was sufficiently remote; and so small, so integrated in its family life, that strangers rarely troubled it. They were one great family. Existence was purely pastoral and self-supporting. They had grain and mutton in plenty even through the hardest times; cheese, which they sealed in the stomach of a sheep, and two kinds of butter, red and black, both made from beans, and named chiang. For clothing they had home-carded wool, sheepskins for extra warmth. They beat a special parchment from the skins that was much prized in Peking. There were many wild ponies on the uplands. Rarely, a member of the family went out with a ponyload of vellum.
In the little tribe were three Fathers, each chosen for this honoured position while still in infancy. For certain relegious offices a fee of rice was paid. They had a special devotion to the Three Precious Ones – the Trinity. Withi
n living memory they had never seen an ordained priest.
Father Chisholm had listened with rapt attention and now he put the question uppermost in his mind.
‘You have not told me how it first began!’
Liu-Chi looked at his visitor with final appraisal. Then with a faint reassured smile he got up and went into the adjoining room. When he returned he bore under his arm a sheepskin-covered bundle. He handed it over silently, watched Father Chisholm open it, then, as the priest’s absorption became apparent, silently withdrew.
It was the journal of Father Ribiero, written in Portuguese, brown stained and tattered, but mostly legible. From his knowledge of Spanish, Francis was able slowly to decipher it. The fascinating interest of the document made the labour as nothing. It held him riveted. He remained motionless, except for the slow movement of his hand turning, at intervals a heavy page. Time flew back three hundred years: the old stopped clock took up its measured tick.
Manoel Ribiero was a missioner of Lisbon who came to Pekin in 1625. Francis saw the Portuguese vividly before him: a young man of twenty-nine, spare, olive-skinned, a little fiery, his swart eyes ardent yet humble. In Pekin the young missionary had been fortunate in his friendship with Father Adam Schall, the great German Jesuit, missionary, courtier, astronomer, trusted friend and canon founder extraordinary to the Emperor T choun-T chin. For several years Father Ribiero shared a little of the glory of this astounding man who moved untouched through the seething intrigues of the Courts of Heaven, advancing the Christian Faith, even in the celestrial harem, confounding virulent hatreds with his accurate predictions of comets and eclipses, compiling a new calendar, winning friendship and illustrious titles for himself and all his ancestors.
Then the Portuguese had pressed to be sent on a distant mission to the Royal Court of Tartary. Adam Schall had granted his request. A caravan was sumptuously equipped and formidably armed. It started from Pekin on the Feast of the Assumption, 1629.